


The Worst Thing

by JinxQuickfoot



Series: Whumping the Hawk [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Canonical Character Death, Clint Barton & Tony Stark Friendship, Deaf Clint Barton, Kidnapped Tony Stark, Mystery, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Past Child Abuse, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Suicidal Ideation, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Whump, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:55:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24801190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JinxQuickfoot/pseuds/JinxQuickfoot
Summary: Natasha would have been better at this. She wouldn’t have doubted, wouldn’t have questioned. She would have gotten the mission done, as she always had. And Natasha would have been able to convince herself that the man splayed out a motel twin bed, playing catch with a packet of Malboros, was not Tony Stark.-------------------------------------------------------------------Or: the worst thing Nick Fury ever asked Clint Barton to do.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Nick Fury, Clint Barton & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: Whumping the Hawk [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2083749
Comments: 89
Kudos: 133





	1. Rescuer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ranni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranni/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Unlimited Edition](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16498418) by [Ranni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranni/pseuds/Ranni). 



> I know, I know - I have like seven WIPs in my Weaknesses series that deserve my love. But after reading the wonderful Ranni's "Unlimited Edition" the idea for this fic got me in a chokehold and refused to let go until words were on paper.
> 
> For world set-up: this is post-Endgame. Natasha did die on Vormir and Tony did die in the last snap, however Steve didn't stay with Peggy and instead lives at the Compound with the other Avengers. We're also ignoring the events of Spider-man: Far From Home. 
> 
> It gets a fair bit darker and somewhat different than anything in the Weaknesses series, so please heed the tags. If I've missed any please let me know.
> 
> [Come say hi on Tumblr - I take requests!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/jinxquickfoot)

It was the worst thing Fury had ever asked him to do.

Clint was in a shitty motel room, the third in as many nights. _I’m retired,_ he had told Fury. _Just let me be._

_You’re the only one, Clint._ The only one that Fury trusted to do this. The only one who _could_ do this. The only one left now that Natasha was gone.

Natasha would have been better at this. She wouldn’t have doubted, wouldn’t have questioned. She would have gotten the mission done, as she always had.

And Natasha would have been able to convince herself that the man splayed out a motel twin bed, playing catch with a packet of Malboros, was not Tony Stark.

Not-Tony was already looking better than when Clint had pulled him out of the wreckage of the building - lab, church, safe house, it didn’t matter - that they had been keeping him in. Clint didn’t know who they were, and he didn’t need to. It had been destroyed when he got there, by Not-Tony’s hand but in such a Real-Tony way that the first seeds of doubt had been planted in Clint’s mind. Not-Tony had rattled off an explanation of squirrelled away supplies and clever stories and cleverer bargaining, them thinking they had him on the ropes when it was the other way around. It was _always_ the other way around; Tony Stark, master of contingencies and fail-safes and always aiming for the endgame.

Not-Tony was younger than Real-Tony had been at the end, his brown hair containing only flecks of gray, the lines around his eyes less pronounced. He hadn’t asked about Morgan, hadn’t asked about Peter, referred to Steve with only a hint of annoyance amongst amiability, asked after Jane Foster as well as Thor, spoke about Bruce as though he was still living at Avengers Tower. Which meant that this Tony was from some time in between New York and Ultron, pre-Accords, pre-Blip, and that hurt, that really fucking hurt because of course it had to be the version of Tony that Clint has been closest with that had miraculously been handed back to him. This was the version of Tony who was Clint’s teammate, one of the original six, before Ultron and the Accords and Thanos had driven them apart, piece by piece, none them catching the cracks until it was too late, until they had spread too far to stop the inevitable break.

What Not-Tony did and didn’t know had taken some time to figure out without Clint being able to outright ask. That had the first of Fury’s rules. _No personal questions,_ Fury had told him. _And don’t give him anything about you either._

The order had brought back memories of Clarice Starling being instructed the same upon meeting Hannibal Lector. Clint had almost smiled as he pictured Tony in the iconic straight-jacket and mask before it it was replaced with Tony on a battlefield, one arm missing as the death crept over his face, the light from the arc reactor fading out one last time.

_Don’t think about that._

That voice was Natasha and she was right, because when Clint thought about Tony he thought of her as well, of her falling, of her hitting rock, and begging with whatever gods there were out in the universe to make it him instead.

Clint had hated himself for a while after that final battle, for focussing so hard on what he had lost that he hadn’t appreciated what he had kept. For spending five years amongst thugs and rapists and murderers and not with Natasha. For spending the last time they shared this earth hiding from her, and then she was gone and Clint was here, and there was no justice in that, none at all, and maybe that was his punishment for trying spending five years spilling blood in justice’s name. For wasting time still, even after the war was done.

Natasha wasn’t the only one he had wasted those last years with. Clint had seen the changes in Tony during their final weeks together. The softness, the sense of peace he had never seen in the man before; the kind of peace Clint hadn’t known himself until Cooper was born. The idea that there was something beyond himself, something more than getting through to the next day. That it all mattered somehow. He’d met Tony’s daughter only once before Tony’s death, when Pepper had brought her to visit the Compound, and then only briefly before retreating, not wanting to see the others’ looks of sympathy and pity and goddamn hope.

He wished that he was able to spend more time with her, after. A small part of him wanted to get to know this little girl with her dad's million-kilowatt smile. But he'd given her a wide berth. It was better that way. 

Tony the father. It was a man Clint wished he had known better - could have known better, even before Morgan. Clint hadn’t even been the one to ask about the photo pinned above Tony’s workstation in the Compound next to the one of Pepper and Morgan at Morgan’s third birthday; the photo of Tony doing rabbit ears next to a brown-haired teenager pulling a face at the camera. That had been Steve, a deeper question phrased as a polite observation, and Clint had known, had recognised the all too familiar flash of loss in Tony’s eyes even as he had muttered something about a Stark Industries intern.

The topic wasn’t broached again.

Clint had kept his promise to Fury; he always kept promises to Fury, even when a small voice inside told him he shouldn’t. He hadn’t shared any of this with Not-Tony. No discussion of personal information; not even lies. Just that his mission was getting Not-Tony to a safe location, and that’s all he could reveal until they got there.

Not-Tony hadn’t pushed, not outwardly, but Clint could see he was scrutinising the archer as doggedly as Clint was analysing him. There was no hiding that Clint was nearly a decade older than the Clint this Tony would know, and Clint hadn’t tried. Clint would have bet his bow that Not-Tony was running every scenario Clint had through his mind; time-travel, alternate dimensions, cloning, magic. The difference was that Clint didn’t care. This was just another mission. And this wasn’t Tony.

“Do you think that the fire alarms in this fine establishment you’ve dragged me to work? Or are they just for show?”

Even though it sure as hell sounded like Tony. Not-Tony finally ended his game of catch, letting the packet of Malboros fall into his waiting fist.

Clint was cleaning his bow, running a cloth up and down the string. That and the large knife currently stashed under his pillow were the only weapons Fury had let him take. Their Tony had gotten pretty damn fast with a gun, and they weren’t taking any risks that this one was the same. “Why do you care? You a smoker now?”

Not-Tony shrugged, pulling out one of the cigarettes and idly rolling it between his fingers. “You won’t let me drink and I’m bored. And hey, one day I’m going to wake up and all my youth will be gone and I’m gonna look like _you_. So gotta make the most of things before the worst happens, right?” He flopped his head sideways so he was looking at Clint with that smile that was so damn familiar, that smile he had passed onto his daughter, the one that filled Clint with a sudden urge to drag Tony back to the Compound that instant, caution be damned. He pictured pulling him into the common area, the other Avengers gathered around, picturing his friends’ faces. _Look who it is, guys. I found him. I saved him. He’s home._

He'd learned to shut those thoughts down as soon as they started now. He wasn't putting anyone else through this hell, showing them the face of the friend they had all lost, knowing he was going to be snatched away from them, again. 

_“_ You start smoking those and you’re going to look a hell of a lot worse than me.”

“I doubt that, Tweetie Bird.” He gestured idly in Clint’s direction. “I know you’re a stubborn bastard but I thought Romanoff would have made you take better care of yourself in your twilight years.”

Clint didn’t react to Natasha’s name; didn’t let himself.

_Give him nothing personal._

That was Phil’s voice; the voice of reason, reminding him of the mission, and if Clint had ever listened to anyone, it was Phil Coulson.

_ Really, Clint? Because you haven't been listening to me about that  _ other _ thing we've been talking about.  _

“I’m far from any twilight, Stark, don’t you worry. I’m going to live forever, remember?”

The room was suddenly far too still, and Clint tensed before realising that it was just Tony - _Not-_ Tony - lying on the bed in a rare moment of quiet, eyeing Clint with the appraising look he would have given a malfunctioning Iron Man suit. Looking for what was broken. Looking for what to fix.

_You’re a bit late there, pal._

Clint shook that voice away because he didn’t need Barney in his head, not right now - not ever.

“Let me call Pepper.”

“You know I can’t.”

“She’s going to be worried about me. Just five minutes.”

It was the conversation they kept coming to over and over again, with Tony asking and Clint refusing. It was mostly Pepper, although sometimes he asked for Rhodey or Bruce, even Steve once. “What’s wrong with my company?”

“Do you really have to ask that?”

Clint gave him a lop-sided grin. “First you say I’m ugly and now I’m boring? If this is what I get for pulling you out of a collapsed building, I won’t bother in the future.”

It was so close to their usual repartee, the banter they’d had on the battlefield when none of the others could be bothered anymore, when Clint had finally found someone who would go verbal blow to blow with him and give as much as he took. Clint pissed off a lot of people at S.H.I.E.L.D., rubbed most of the agents the wrong way. He didn’t care. He knew what they whispered about him.

_Circus trash. Criminal. Traitor._

That last one came after Loki and he didn’t care. He didn’t care because he had finally had a place at S.H.I.E.L.D. where he fit. Clint Barton was human, but he had been born to run with monsters and gods and super-soldiers, the way he hadn’t with other agents who wouldn’t crack a joke or take an insane risk the way Tony would.

Not-Tony held out the cigarette box and Clint shook his head. “It’s just one.”

“One’s more than you should have.”

“You sound like Cap,” Not-Tony groaned. “Are you going to play me a PSA of how smoking’s going to give me cancer and no friends?”

“Both of those things are true.”

“Come on, Barton. You’d still be my friend if I was a smoker, wouldn’t you?” _You’re not my friend. You’re not Tony._

“Of course I would be. You build me all my favourite toys.”

Anyone else would have missed it; the slight twitch of Not-Tony’s lips, the almost blink. Clint groaned at the mental image of Fury shaking his head.

_Rule one: no personal information._

_Oh, come on, Nick. That was nothing._

His finger was itching from where his wedding ring should be, the way it always had on missions, but after several years of having no reason to remove it he felt its loss more than ever, along with the silver arrow on a chain that should be around his neck. He didn’t need Not-Tony questioning why Clint was wearing it and not Natasha. At least the wedding ring he didn't have to explain. He'd left it with the letter that said everything and not nearly enough when he had slipped out the farmhouse door before the rooster had called for the Bartons to wake. 

Natasha would have been better at this.

_Yes, I would have been, but this isn't my mission. It's yours. So get your act together, Barton._

“You hungry?”

Not-Tony seemed to eat like any human did. Clint had almost laughed out loud when he had first thought that, that it had seemed normal to think that, even as he had retrieved sad-looking sandwiches from a seedy gas station and dumped them into Not-Tony’s lap. Not-Tony had wrinkled his nose at them and Clint had teased him about silver spoons and they had joked and bickered until Clint had found the first motel, even as Clint forced Not-Tony into a hot shower and ignored the protest for privacy in the name of protection.

Not-Tony didn’t have the arc reactor, but he had the same post-operation scarring Real-Tony had had, as well as the burn scar on his back of his hand from a particularly nasty soldering accident, and the slice along his ribs when an assassin at a gala had gotten too close for comfort, the exit wound of the bullet he had taken for Clint, letting it strike through his shoulder instead of Clint’s heart.

“I’ve seen the selection the motel vending machine has to offer. I’m good. Where are we headed tomorrow?” It was phrased so casually, but Clint heard the real question. _Where are you taking me?_

“I told you. Somewhere safe.”

“For how long?”

“Until other places are also safe.”

"But east, right?"

"For now."

Not-Tony let out a dramatic sigh, tucking the cigarettes into the pocket of the too-big jeans Clint had fished out of a charity shop clearance bin. “Let me call Pepper.”

“No. Go to sleep.”

“But I’m not tired.” He was sounding like a petulant child on purpose, Clint knew, trying to rile him up, to catch him off-guard.

“I am.” He was already checking the locks on the motel room door before heaving the tacky wardrobe with built-in hangers in front of it. He would hear it if anyone tried to get in. Or out.

“I told you, we can share the driving.”

“It’s fine. You’re hurt.”

It wasn’t the reason, but they both pretended it was. “It was one petty explosion. I do worse to myself in my lab all the time.”

_It’s not your lab. It’s Tony’s lab. Was Tony's lab._ “Then you need to up your workplace health and safety game.”

“I share my workspace with the Hulk. So I think that’s a lost cause.”

Clint didn’t deny or confirm it, just shed his outer layer of clothing and flopped down on the bed. He actually was tired. Not “I’m ready to go to sleep” tired but “I can’t take this anymore” tired. Only one of those could be fixed with a good night’s sleep. He pulled the thinning blanket up, taking the bow to bed with him in a twisted parody of a child cuddling a favourite teddy bear. One hand curled around the knife under the pillow and, for the first time since Fury had called, he felt some semblance of safety.

It didn’t last. Just as Clint was about to let his eyes flicker shut, he heard Not-Tony swing out of bed and head for the bathroom. Clint had discretely shattered the lock beyond repair, blaming the quality of the motel, but Not-Tony hadn’t bought it, even as neither of them mentioned it. 

He could hear him in there now, the Not-Tony that was so like Real-Tony that Clint just wanted to give in, to believe it was him, to break every promise he’d made to Fury and bring him back to the Compound and pretend that the Snap had never happened. 

_I found him. I saved him. He’s home._

_Stop that, Clint. It's not helping.  
_

_I know, Nat._

Clint blinked himself back, listening hard, not missing the irony that it was the enhanced hearing aids - never-ending battery, surround sound, the whole deal - Real-Tony had left him in his will that let him hear Not-Tony shuffling around, the clink of plastic on a sink, the running of a tap.

_Scared he's going to run off, Clinton? We have a solution for that, don't we? Works every time._

_Go away, Barney._

Clint hadn’t let Not-Tony have an electric toothbrush, or a comb, or a razor, even as Not-Tony bemoaned the loss of his iconic goatee, but when it came to the plastic toothbrush Clint had relented. _What’s he going to do? Sharpen the end and shank you with it?_

Clint half-smiled as he remembered a situation where Natasha had done just that - not to Clint, thankfully, but to the man who had been holding a gun to Clint's head as he demanded Natasha drop her weapons and get on her knees. Clint fully grinned at that, for the first time in what felt like years, not since he had been picnicking with the kids in the backyard and teaching Lila to hold a bow, because _no one_ told Natasha Romanoff to get on her knees and lived.

He knew there would come a time when thinking of Natasha wouldn’t feel like acid in his veins, the way he had come to be able to remember Phil with fond recollections and not an ache in his heart. The best parts, not the worst, the way he had started to think about Tony. Real-Tony.

Until Fury asked him to do this.The worst thing he had ever asked Clint to do. 


	2. Protector

“Can I at least get a lighter?”

Clint glanced over to where Not-Tony was leaning over the still slightly-smoking car hood, baseball cap pulled low over his face. Clint insisted it was for anonymity, which wasn’t false, but it would be a lie if he didn’t admit the long drives were easier when Not-Tony’s face was obscured from view. It was simpler to pretend this was just another S.H.I.E.L.D. asset he was protecting; a witness, a defector, a target.

Clint had been picking up new cars in between crappy motels, but his limited choice this morning had led to them trundling into a rundown gas station as the smell of exhaust filled their borrowed vehicle. Not-Tony had taken it in stride, propping up the car hood and listing the tools needed to fix the job, which Clint had denied him. Not-Tony had been surprisingly adept at squirrelling away whatever resources he had been able to get his hands on, and after catching him with a pocket full of pilfered bed springs, Clint wasn't taking any chances.

“What do you need a lighter for?”

Not-Tony pulled out the cigarette box and rattled it. Clint wrinkled his nose. “You’re not really going to smoke those, are you? You found them in a motel drawer - you don’t even know how long they’d been there.” When Not-Tony just shrugged, Clint asked, “Can you fix the car or not?”

“With tools? Yes.”

Clint had compromised by picking up the strongest roll of duct tape the tiny gas station shop had to offer, responding to Not-Tony’s eye roll with a, “You’re a genius. You’ll make do.”

Clint had debated whether or not to leave Not-Tony at the car versus taking him with him to the gas station, and decided that the possibility of the man being recognised outweighed the risks of leaving him alone with a vehicle, even a broken-down one. He needn’t have worried; the portly man behind the counter looked more interested in the basketball highlights reel playing on his phone.  
  
Not that it would have really mattered if the cashier had recognised Not-Tony's face. Ever since Tony's death in 2023, there had been a new sighting every week. Apparently, Clint's dead teammate was a drummer in Housten, a bartender in Maine, and living under the San Franciso bridge, all at the same time. While these reports had died down, there had been a recent slew of them over the past few of months or so, supposed Tony Stark sightings from all over the country marked on the internet. Clint was almost sure it was mass hysteria, but he wouldn't have put it past Fury to have orchestrated the whole thing weeks in advance of Clint's mission, to reduce the risk of them being identified. 

Not-Tony was spinning a rack of lighters around, still looking at Clint hopefully as Clint shelled out some crumpled banknotes, grabbing some bottles of water and protein bars for good measure. Not-Tony grinned, having paused the rack on a brightly colored selection of plastic lighters, each bearing a different cartoon Avenger. He tapped an Iron Man one with a smirk, even as his eyes drifted curiously to the red and blue one in the top right. “Who’s that? Team got a new recruit?”

Clint shot him a look, indicating the gas station attendant, to which Not-Tony rolled his eyes again. “You’re so paranoid.”

Clint’s response was to grab a plain black lighter off the rack and add it to the pile to shut him up.

They made do with the duct tape. At least the engine wasn’t smoking anymore as Not-Tony slammed the hood shut and stepped back, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Well, that probably won’t kill us.”

"Probably?"

"I’ve gotten out of so many scrapes by now I think I might be immortal. Not sure about you, Legolas. You might only have one go at this."

_And what a fine time you're making of it, Clinton. Miss the kids yet?_

_Barney, I mean it - get lost._

“I’ll get us a new car tomorrow.”

“The grand theft auto continues. Fantastic.” Not-Tony withdrew the packet of cigarettes, patting the top of the car. “Just put the lighter there. What?” he added off Clint’s look, clenching a cigarette between his teeth. “I don’t like to be handed things.”

The cigarette was reassuring - a confirmation of sorts that this was not Clint’s Tony. Not only had Real-Tony never shown the remotest interest in smoking, he would have never lit one up around Clint. Privacy was a rare luxury on missions, and it hadn’t taken long for Real-Tony to get a glimpse of the small, round burns that covered Clint’s back and shoulders. The engineer had shown a rare restraint and never commented on them, but the truth had come out on a mission gone wrong where Tony had been snatched to build weapons, and Clint had drawn the unlucky card of being leverage.

Clint had stoutly instructed Tony not to give their captors a thing, even as they went through several packs of cigarettes using Clint as their personal ashtray. Tony had alternated between cursing and bargaining and threatening before finally seeming to give in.

He’d gotten them out with a pen. A damn pen. They’d had to uncuff him in order for him to draw up the plans, but the pen was only in Tony’s hands for a second before he was jabbing it into their leader’s throat, giving Clint enough of a distraction to shed his bonds and take care of the rest.

It had come out after that. Clint hadn’t told Tony everything about his father, but he told him enough to paint the picture. The drunkenness, the beatings, the cigarettes. How Barney had cracked after their father hit Clint one time too many and one time too hard. He had packed that night and dragged Clint out onto the road, promising a new start and safety and freedom from their father, only to slowly but surely take his place.

Clint still had nightmares about the first time Barney had crushed out a cigarette on his neck. It hadn’t been provoked; they hadn’t even been speaking. Clint had been half-watching the crappy television set Barney had nicked for their tiny trailer when the pain came, unexpected and cruel, Barney’s face filled with dark curiosity. As though he just wanted to know what it felt like.

Barton blood always won out in the end. 

Not-Tony raised an eyebrow at Clint, waiting. Clint sighed, but held out the lighter, although instead of putting it on the car hood he lit the flame himself, holding under the cigarette until it caught alight, then put the lighter back in his own pocket. Not-Tony rolled his eyes at that but didn’t comment on it, taking a tentative pull on the cigarette and bursting into a coughing fit.

“I told you it was a bad idea.”

Not-Tony glared at him through watery eyes, before he slowly but resolutely finished the entire thing. Clint scoffed at him, but kicked up gravel and dust around the car until Not-Tony was finished, dropping the butt to the ground and crushing it under his foot. “Make them last. I’m not buying you more.”

Not-Tony shrugged, just tucking the packet back into his pocket and dutifully getting back in the car's passenger seat.

The cigarettes become a habit over the next few days of driving and gas stations and motels. Clint had debated whether to take back roads or the highway, whether or not to backtrack now and then to give Not-Tony a false sense of aimless wandering, but had decided on speed instead and ended up headed resolutely east. Not-Tony had definitely worked out their direction by now, and the closer they got to the final destination, the more Clint could see his passenger calculating locked motel doors and truck stops and car thefts. He stopped asking for the phone calls as well, giving it up as a lost cause.

Clint stepped up his vigilance as well, and they both still pretended it was for Not-Tony’s protection. Sometimes Clint even believed it, just enough to keep the nagging thoughts of what lay at the end of the road at bay. Even when he thought about it, really thought about it, he could remind himself that this wasn’t Tony. He was an asset; this was a mission.

They had been on the road a week when Not-Tony first mentioned Laura.

Not outright, because it was never outright, it was always subtle almost to the point of invisibility. It was a tactic, the way Not-Tony had started to prod and poke, digging for any scrap of information he could, looking for the chinks in Clint’s armor.

“You can wear your wedding ring if you like. I won’t tell.”

They were in motel number seven, which looked exactly like the previous six. Clint’s back was beginning to ache from days spend behind the wheel and nights spent on broken springs, reminding him again that age was sneaking up on him, that life was finite, that time was short and could be better spent elsewhere.

_Go home to them, Clint._

_You know I can't, Nat._

“Did you want to shower first or is it ok if I do?”

“You can’t avoid my questions forever.”

Clint’s pointed silence indicated that he could. He started to strip off his outer layers, headed for the bathroom. Not-Tony perched, resigned, on the edge of the bed, in view of the bathroom door. He no longer needed prompting to stay in sight at all times.

“You are married, right? I see you sometimes - touching where the ring should be.”

That was a dirty lie. Clint hadn’t been that careless - he was sure he hadn’t. 

“You know at first, I thought it was Natasha. That you two had finally worked that out and gotten hitched. Which would have been sweet, although I had a bet going with Pepper that she had a thing for Banner.”

It was like a knife every time Not-Tony said her name. So casually, as though she was waiting for them back at the tower with that I-know-something-you-don’t smile, ready to kick his ass in training and chew him out for pulling his punches when he got the upper hand.

“But then, I think…” Not-Tony’s voice was unsure, hesitant. “I think I remember her. Laura.”

Clint paused in the bathroom doorway, Phil's voice of warning in his head. 

_It’s a ploy._ _He’s just fishing for information._

Clint continued to ignore and deflect until Not-Tony added, “I did something awful, didn’t I? And then we had to go to your place. Hide out for a bit.”

“You were trying to protect us.”

It slipped out before he could stop it. He clamped down on his tongue, trying to ignore the images of Fury’s glare, Phil’s disappointed sigh, Natasha’s raised eyebrow of _Really?_

“I remember…more,” Not-Tony continued. “More than I did before. There’s what, ten years lost here?”

“I’m going to shower now.”

Not-Tony stood and made his way over to Clint. His arm extended, reaching for him, before he changed his mind and dropped it to his side instead. “You can tell me. I can take it. What did I do?”

_Nothing. You did nothing. You’re not Tony._

Clint stepped away, futilely hoping that this time the water pressure would be above a lukewarm trickle. It wasn’t, but he stepped under it anyway, trying to ignore Not-Tony in the bathroom doorway.

“And not just a wife. There were kids too, right? Two little ones. One on the way. I didn’t know. None of us knew…”

Not this. "Stop.”

“You must miss them.”

Anything but this. _“Stop.”_

“Is he one of them?”

Clint slammed the shower off, the trickle of water not worth the effort, snatching up a threadbare towel to wrap around his waist before indicating Not-Tony that it was his turn.

“The spider guy,” Not-Tony pressed. “The new one. Is he one of yours? Is that why he’s a recruit?”

“The shower is shit but at least the water isn’t freezing.”

Clint closed the toilet seat and planted himself on top it, between Not-Tony and the door. “It’s not secretly Romanoff’s, is it? Did you and Nat make a super-baby? Is that why it’s a spider? Kid Widow? Baby Widow?” When he got nothing back, he gave up and got in the shower. “This is _awful_. How about a hotel next time?”

“We’re being inconspicuous.”

“You mean it’s not in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s budget, right?” He was back to his usual prattle, the kind he used to fill the long car journeys, meant to sound casual and designed to knock Clint off guard. “Well, fuck S.H.I.E.L.D. I would have at least have thought I warranted one night’s good rest and a decent shower before you hand me over for them to experiment on.”

And there it was. Clint didn’t deny or confirm, but the silence itself was confirmation enough. “Did they make the Kid Widow in the lab then? Some fun little experiments to boost Avenger numbers? PR move? If it was a PR move, the spider theme was a weird choice.”

Not-Tony gave up on the shower even faster than Clint had, towelling himself off. Clint expected him to head back into the bedroom then, as he always did, but instead he perched on the edge of the sink, looking straight at Clint. “You don’t think I’m me, do you?”

“I think you’re you.”

_Whoever the fuck that is._

“I mean you don’t think I’m Tony Stark. Billionaire, genius, playboy, philanthropist, all that stuff.”

_He's not._

_I know, Nat._

“I don’t know what Fury’s told you, what you think I am, but it’s _me_ , Clint. It’s Tony. Even if I’m younger, even if my memory has a few holes in it.”

Nope. Clint was not doing this. He was already standing, meaning to put some distance between them. “We passed a few takeout places on the way in. How do you feel about Indian?”

He didn’t mean to attack when Not-Tony caught his arm. It was the first physical contact they’d had since Clint had pulled him out of the wreckage and cleaned up the various scrapes and cuts, because Clint hadn’t wanted to touch this _thing_ with his dead friend’s face, hadn’t wanted to feel the touch that was warm and human and felt too damn familiar. In hindsight, he knew that Not-Tony had only been trying to get his attention, to will some kind of connection between them, but his instincts kicked in faster than his brain. Within two seconds he had Not-Tony pinned up against a wall with his hands around his throat, and there was a flash of something in Not-Tony’s eyes that wasn’t fear or pain but something worse that Clint couldn’t pinpoint.

Clint let him go almost as soon as it happened, trying to make a joke of it. “I’d have thought you’d know better by now than to sneak up on me.”

But Not-Tony didn’t take the bait, didn’t go for the banter. “I do know. Because I know you, Clint. We’re teammates. Friends.”

_Be cautious._

_You know me, Phil._

_I do. Don’t engage._

Clint pulled away, heading back into the main room to get dressed, placing himself between Not-Tony and the motel door. But Not-Tony wasn’t finished, wasn’t ready to let it go. “How can I convince you? There has to be a way. Name it and it’s done.”

Clint pulled a t-shirt and jacket on, slipping the knife down the back of the jeans. 

“What do you even need that thing for?”

“I’m protecting you.”

Not-Tony gave a harsh bark of laughter, sitting down on the opposite bed. “Don’t bullshit me right now. I know you’re dragging me back to S.H.I.E.L.D. And I know you know what they’re going to do to me when we get there.”

Clint didn’t - not really. Fury hadn’t said. Clint hadn’t let himself imagine. “Indian ok, then? I’ll order in.”

_“Clint.”_

“Are you feeling chicken or beef?” 

Not-Tony gave a huff of resignation, starting to get dressed. “About before. Grabbing you like that. You’re right - I should know better by now. You and Romanoff are unhinged."

_You got that right. Like father, like son, right Clinton?  
_

_I'm nothing like you, Dad._

_Apple doesn't fall far from the tree, son._

"You ever think about seeing someone about that, Hunger Games? I'm sure you could use a good talk and cry one of these days.”

_There's nothing left to say. It's already done._

_Clint -_

_You know me as well as I do, Phil._

“All the S.H.I.E.L.D. therapists are too terrified to try by now.”

“No sudden touching if I want to keep my head. Got it.” Not-Tony wrinkled his nose as he pulled his t-shirt back on. “Got any quarters? I think I saw a washing machine on the way in.”

Clint relented on taking the short walk to the laundry together, relieved that Not-Tony had dropped the subject of S.H.I.E.L.D. for the time being. They lucked out in the laundry, finding an abandoned pack of playing cards, albeit missing most of the spades. They made do, sprawled out on the stained motel carpet, eating curry and playing cards and for a couple of hours things felt close to normal.

_And I know you know what they’re going to do to me when we get there._ Clint tried to bury the words somewhere he couldn’t hear them anymore as he reshuffled, blocking out Not-Tony’s complaints that Clint was stacking the deck.

_I_ _t’s not Tony. It can’t be. Tony’s dead._

Eventually, he felt his eyes start to pull shut, exhausted from the constant vigilance and the hours of driving, and he announced it was bedtime.

An hour or so later, Clint readjusted his grip on his bow and knife and he heard Not-Tony stir, heading into the motel bathroom to brush his teeth, as had become routine. Clint always made both of them go to bed much earlier than either of them wanted to. As tired as Clint always felt, sleep was a stranger these days. Mostly, he just wanted to turn the lights off so he didn’t have to see Not-Tony’s face, and to end the possibility of further conversation. Not-Tony would comply, tossing and turning before retreating to the bathroom. Clint always gave him five minutes, counting carefully, before he would follow him. He had never said this out loud, but Not-Tony seemed to know, because he would inevitably return before Clint’s mental clock had run its course.

Until tonight.

Clint was on four minutes and fifty-three seconds when he heard retching. He was on his feet in an instant, bow and knife ready as dashed to the bathroom to find Not-Tony hunched over the toilet bowl, shaking.

Clint swore as he placed the bow across his back to give him a free hand. He clicked on the fan and flushed the toilet to help with the smell as he helped Not-Tony, pale and sweating, lie back against the cool tiles. “Damn cheap Indian food,” Not-Tony was gasping, then he stared up at Clint in suspicion. “Why…why aren’t you…you’re fine!”

“Stomach of a goat. Can eat anything.”

Not-Tony groaned in response. “Not fair, Barton.”

“Are you going to be sick again?”

Not-Tony considered, then shook his head. “I don’t think so. Do you always poison the people you’re supposedly _protecting_?”

Clint ignored the accusation. “It’s not my fault if all that fancy food you grew up with gave you a weak stomach. Blame your upper-class parents.”

“Oh, I do. For a lot of things.”

_ How much do you blame me for, Clinton? And how much of it is just in your nature?  _

“Here.” The bathroom was out of towels so Clint opted for toilet paper to wipe the sweat off Not-Tony’s forehead and neck, seeing some of the color start to come back into his cheeks. 

“Like…like the time…Nat tried to cook coq au vin…”

“Sh, it’s ok.” Clint was making his voice soothing, comforting, but inside his guts twisted, like they always did at hearing Natasha’s name.

“We all ate it because…because we were too scared to tell her it was awful. Even Steve got a bit green around the gills, and you and I were puking -”

“I was _not_.”

“You thought you were hiding it from us but she caught you. And, god, she gave you hell for weeks for trying to lie about her cooking. Only Nat could poison us and give _us_ shit for it.” Not-Tony pulled in another breath. “Where is she, Clint?”

Clint ignored him. “Are you up for another shower? Might help.”

Not-Tony grabbed his arm, weak and shaking still, and this time Clint fought the urge to retaliate. “It makes no sense. That Fury wouldn’t give both of you this assignment. Wouldn’t give you that backup, when you're so clearly..." Not-Tony gestured weakly to him. "You look like hell chewed you up and spat you back, Clint. So why isn't she here with you?" 

“Is that a yes to the shower?”

“Is she dead?”

_Ignore him._

_I know, Nick._

_Give him nothing personal. Give him_ nothing, _you hear me, Agent?_

“Clint, if she’s dead…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Maybe the shower can wait, at least until you can stand on your own two feet again. But I’m betting some water sounds real good right about now, yeah?”

Not-Tony sighed, slumping back against the bathroom wall. “Yeah…water. Water would be good.”

“Ok.” Clint forced himself not to sprint out of the bathroom as he approached the tiny kitchen in the motel, searching for glasses and cursing when the ones he found weren’t clean. He started to scrub them out in the sink, more vigorously than was warranted, needing something to do with his hands.

_It’s not him, Clint._ _Fury wouldn’t ask you to take him back to S.H.I.E.L.D. if he was._

_But if he's back, Nat, maybe you could be too.  
_

_I'm not, Clint. I'm gone._

The glass in Clint’s hand shattered. He swore, abandoning the broken pieces and filling an empty plastic bottle instead, handing it back to the hunched over form of Not-Tony. He took it willingly enough, using it to rinse out his mouth before drinking the rest. "You were asleep.”

“I don't sleep much these days."

"Sorry."

"Hey, I suggested Indian. That one’s on me, ok?”

“I wasn’t talking about the takeout.”

“I know," Clint breathed. "But we’re done talking about anything else. You ready to go back to bed?”

Not-Tony nodded, extending a hand for Clint to pull him up. Clint helped him back to his bed before returning to his own, curling around his bow once more. He had thought Not-Tony was asleep when he heard it. “Clint?”

_Don’t engage._

“I don’t remember Natasha dying. Not yet. It was…it was recent, wasn’t it?”

_Shut up._

_“_ But I think I remember…The spider kid. Peter, right?”

“Go to sleep.”

“And there was a fight. Me and Steve but also…everyone. The details are hazy but -”

“ _Tony._ ” Clint heard the form on the other bed stiffen. “I mean it. Go to sleep.”

“Ok, ok.” The motel was filled with rustling and squeaking springs as Not-Tony tried to make himself comfortable. “For the record, I take no responsibility if I keep you awake with constant trips to the bathroom to throw up this crappy Indian food you picked out.”

“Duly noted.”

“Clint -” But he broke off at Clint’s frustrated growl. “Ok, ok. Sleeping. Jesus, Barton.”

When it happened, Clint thought he might have actually been asleep, for the first time in too long, because he was dreaming of Laura. She was sliding a ring off his finger before vanishing into dust with his name on her lips, and he was calling her back, desperately searching for her, and then Laura was Natasha, when the slightest sound from the other bed jerked him back into consciousness. His fist clenched around the knife as he heard Not-Tony stir, until he remembered. _Right. Food poisoning._

His fist was just relaxing on the knife handle when he heard the lock of the motel room click open.

He was on his feet in a second, throwing the knife towards the door. He heard a cry as he barrelled towards a shape outlined in the darkness, snapping on the light as he found a wrist and wrenched Not-Tony’s arm behind his back.

“Goddamnit, let go!”

Clint wrenched the knife from where it had lodged between the door and the frame, wedging it shut and preventing the escape attempt, before he manoeuvred the struggling form beneath him into the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind them both.

He shoved Not-Tony away from him, breathing hard. Not-Tony’s eyes were wide but the pale pallor from earlier was gone.

“How?” Clint demanded.

“I was sick -”

“Don’t lie to me! Did you make yourself vomit earlier?” Clint recalled the pale face, the sweat, the shaking. Real-Tony would have never been able to fake something like that. Right? “What the _fuck_ are you?”

That broke Fury’s second rule.

_Don’t ask questions. You won’t want to know the answers._

“I’m _me_.” Not-Tony swallowed, taking a tentative step forward. “Your wife’s name is Laura.”

“Don’t.”

“Your children are Cooper, Lila, and Nathaniel Pietro, who you named after Natasha and Wanda’s brother, after Ultron -”

“You’re not Tony Stark!

“Why the fuck not?”

_“Because I saw him die!”_

Clint fought the urge to bury his face in his hands as he leaned back against the bathroom door, settling instead for ramming the handle of the knife so hard against the wood that the cheap paint cracked, off-white flakes coating the bathroom tile.

“Well, shit.” And that sounded like Tony, so much like goddamn Real-Tony, that Clint laughed before abruptly breaking off the sound. “How? At least tell me it was a blaze of glory. I didn’t do something embarrassing like blow myself up in my lab or choke on a peanut, did I?”

Clint just shook his head. “I saw him die. We burned the body - what was left of it. So I don’t know what the fuck you are, but you’re not him. You can’t be. You’re…”

“An anomaly,” Not-Tony provided. “Something that should never have been.” There was a beat of silence, and then he added, “And Fury asked you to be the clean-up crew. Fuck, Clint, that’s…that’s messed up, even for Fury.”

Even though he refused to look directly at him, Clint could see Not-Tony analysing, taking in the bathroom, the door, the knife in Clint’s hand. “My mission isn’t killing you,” Clint got out.

“No. It’s taking me to S.H.I.E.L.D. Whether I want to go or not.”

“I don’t think…they won’t kill you either.”

“No. It’ll be worse. It will be so much worse. You know that, right?” He took Clint’s silence as affirmation. “God, you can be a bastard sometimes.”

_More than you know._

When Clint was still silent, Not-Tony ploughed on. “Ok. So I’m not the Tony you knew. Maybe. I don’t know. Let’s say I’m not - for now. I have all the same memories as that Tony. Well, most of them, and the missing ones are coming back. It’s like I’m driving in the dark with headlights. I can only see a little bit ahead at a time, but it’s getting clearer. Every day more comes back to me. And if I look like Tony Stark and act like Tony Stark and if I have all of Tony Stark’s memories, doesn’t that make me Tony Stark?”

Clint was shaking his head. Phil and Natasha were competing for attention in his head.

_Get out don’t engage get out -_

“And even if I’m not…I’m _someone,_ aren’t I? You’re taking someone to the living hell that is that S.H.I.E.L.D. lab.”

Clint had heard enough. He wrenched open the bathroom door and started throwing things into bags. “We need to get moving. We’ll drive through the night.” Anything to get this nightmare over with. 

He heard Not-Tony sigh before he came to help with the packing. Clint waved him off. “You touch nothing.”

“Look, I shouldn’t have tried to run. I won’t do it again, ok?”

“Stay in the bathroom until I come and get you.” 

“Can we talk about this?”

Clint’s response was to wave the knife at him.

“Ok. Jesus, ok, I’ll wait in the bathroom.”

Clint finished packing, then bent over the bed, asking Phil and Natasha for help, and getting Fury instead.

_Do what needs to be done, Agent._

“Do what needs to be done,” Clint muttered, throwing the bag over his shoulder. “Stay focussed. Complete the mission. Got it.”

_Whatever it takes._

“Yeah. Whatever it takes.”


	3. Captor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Homophobic language very briefly used

“You weren’t on my side.”

Clint wasn’t sure how many hours he’d been driving for. The clock in their most recently acquired vehicle was flashing angry red lines at him, broken beyond repair. He’d dragged Not-Tony out of the motel while it was still dark out and they had been headed east ever since - back to New York, and back to S.H.I.E.L.D.

_ Don't engage. Complete the mission. Then you can go home. _

It was the refrain he kept returning to, every time he wanted to pull over and close his eyes, just for a second. He knew he couldn’t drive straight forever - even non-stop they were still at least from a week from S.H.I.E.L.D.

He was so sick of being tired.

Eight hours in, Clint almost caved. He was a breath away from calling Fury, demanding that he send a helicarrier with twenty armed agents and a case full of sedatives. Let them take care of the thing in the passenger seat, who looked like he was gearing up for another round of _Don’t do this._ _It’s me, Clint. It’s Tony. Don’t do this._

But Clint also knew if that path had been an option, Fury would have taken it. Nick Fury was a lot of things, but he wasn’t cruel. If there had been any other way, any other person who could have done this, Fury would have gone to them before he came to Clint.

Clint could guess why Fury had decided this was the best course of action. Clint was leaving no trace as he travelled cross-country — not even in S.H.I.E.L.D’s official logbooks. He wasn’t even an agent there, not anymore. And this had to be done by someone who knew Tony Stark; knew him enough to predict the escape attempts when they came, knew enough not to fall prey to the roundabout arguments, to the comments and jabs designed to knock down one’s guard. And, perhaps, by someone the Real-Tony had trusted - someone Not-Tony would try to convince and befriend, instead of attack or escape from.

“When there was the fight. The big one, with everyone…you weren’t on my side.”

_Don’t engage._

“You gotta watch your back with this guy. There’s a chance he’s going to break it.”

Clint flinched so hard that the car swerved, making Not-Tony curse. Clint risked shooting him a look. “Maybe that’s not the best thing to bring up when I’m driving.”

Not-Tony smacked his hand into the car window. “Jesus, Barton. Do you have any idea what this is like? I remember you saying that and then _nothing_ else. Just Cap beating the crap out of me in Siberia and then it’s blank. Him, you, Nat, Bruce, Thor…have none of us spoken since then? Fuck, Clint, are we _enemies?_ Answer me that, at least.”

_Complete the mission._

“That’s why I tried to run.” Not-Tony’s voice was quiet now, even as he leg jiggled up and down, a nervous habit that had pissed Clint off to no end whenever he and Real-Tony been sent on missions together. “I remember Germany. You firing at me. And later you yelling at me. And then _nothing_ between us since then.”

Clint forced back an instinct to slam a hand down on Not-Tony’s leg, to keep it still, to stop distracting him from the road.

“Other pieces are coming back, though. Not with you and me or the team…but I remember Pepper coming back. Us working it out. And I remember Peter.”

_Then you can go home._

Clint’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. His head was pounding from the lack of sleep, just from the lack of sleep, he told himself. Nothing else. Not-Tony wasn’t getting to him.

Clint had met Peter officially at Tony’s funeral - none of the Avengers counted Germany as a proper introduction. The archer had been curious, to see what kind of kid had wrapped Tony so firmly around his little finger that Tony had gifted the teenager practically everything he could in his will. New suits, an inheritance, shares in his company - it was more than a mentor would give a mentee.

Some of it had come out in the eulogy. They’d each taken a third of it; Rhodey, Pepper, and Peter, each covering a different time in Tony’s life. Peter’s had been filled with stories of lab sessions and movie nights. Of the time Tony had taken him for ice cream after his finals. When Tony had sat by Peter’s side for two days while May was sick in the hospital.

“Is he ok?” Not-Tony’s voice was soft, almost inaudible. “Peter. Is he ok?”

_Don’t engage._

“Come on, it’s one question. Answer it and I won’t ask anything else, ok?”

_Don’t -_

“Dammit, Clint. Put yourself in my shoes. Imagine if you were in the middle of nowhere with missing memories and had no idea what had happened to Cooper or Nate. Although I guess that’s something you’d be used to.”

There was a hard edge creeping into the words now; frustration and worry but also something else that Clint couldn’t name. He gripped the wheel tighter.

“It wasn’t exactly something I knew about growing up; caring fathers and all that. But I knew enough. I knew enough to _not_ call you when all the shit with the Accords was going down. To let you be, at home, with your family. I was going to keep you out of it, because you were my friend and I gave a damn.” That edge was growing harder, more pronounced. “And then Steve doesn’t even think twice about any of that, and you come running and fight by his side anyway. And if I didn’t understand it then, then I really didn’t get it later. After Peter. Because I would never, ever do anything something that reckless while I had a kid depending on me.”

_This is what a good father sounds like, Clinton._

_Back off, Barney. Last chance.  
_

_Or what? You can't remove me from your head. I'm part of you. Always have been._

“I used to be so impressed by you. I never told you that, but I was. That you were managed to be such a good father despite your shitty dad, your abusive brother. But then you landed yourself on the Raft -”

Clint’s restraint broke. “I landed _myself_ on the Raft?”

“You knew the law. You read it, you broke it. Were you even thinking of your family when -"

Clint practically snarled at him. "I'm always thinking of my family. I'm always doing what's best for -"

_"CLINT!"_

Clint only saved them at the last second. He jerked on the wheel as they skidded around the bend in the road that Clint had taken too fast. The car fished-tailed as Clint instinctively slammed on the breaks, careening off the road until they finally ground to a complete and sudden stop, Clint’s head smashing into the steering wheel and tasting copper.

He was aware of movement to his right, the sound of a car door opening. He swore as he made a grab and a miss, Not-Tony scrambling out of the car before Clint could stop him. Clint wiped sweat from his eyes as he wrenched off his seatbelt, snatching his bow from beside him. It was pre-loaded, another Tony Stark trademark design, the arrow ready as Clint aimed and fired.

A howl of pain rent the air as Clint staggered after the direction the shot had been fired. Not-Tony was sprawled in the grass, bent over the arrow that had pierced into his calf. He tried to crawl away as Clint approached, the archer shouldering the bow as he went to turn Not-Tony over so he could assess the damage.

Clint was received with a look of such pure hate that a man with less training would have blanched. He had never seen Tony - his Tony, Real-Tony - look like that. Not in Germany, not _ever._

It only lasted a split second, the cruel expression melting into pain and hurt that was from more than the leg wound. “You shot me,” Not-Tony was gasping, clutching at his leg. “You fucking shot me.”

“You shouldn’t have made me crash the car.”

“I didn’t make you do shit.”

“You distracted me.” This time, Clint didn’t need the voice that sounded like Natasha to curse him out for being an idiot. He was doing a fine job of that himself. “What if I’d killed you as well?”

“I’d rather that than being cut up in some S.H.I.E.L.D. lab.”

“Don’t be dramatic. Let me see the leg.” Without waiting for Not-Tony’s permission, Clint batted the other man’s hands away from the wound. “It’s not that bad.”

“There is an _arrow_ in my _leg_.”

“If I wanted to make it bad, I could have made it bad.” Clint detached the ends of the arrow, placing them back into their slots inside the bow. Not-Tony seemed to guess what he was about to do next because he turned ghost white, trying to scramble out of Clint’s grasp again. “Don’t be a baby. I can’t leave it in. On three, yeah?”

“Wait -”

“Three.”

Clint pulled, ignoring Not-Tony’s curses and shouts of pain. He stripped off his t-shirt to wrap around the wound, turning away a couple of times to stop the blood from his nose mingling with Not-Tony’s. “There,” he said, when the bandaging was done. “If you’re good, I’ll stop somewhere to buy you painkillers.”

“Fuck you, Barton.”

“You made us crash, remember?.” He bent to get an arm under Not-Tony’s, hauling him to his feet despite his protests and half-dragged, half-carried him back to the car. Luckily, he hadn’t got that far in his escape attempt, so it was only a few yards before Clint was dropping him back in the passenger seat.

“You would have crashed eventually anyway,” Not-Tony spat at him. “I was just speeding up the process.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Clint hated to admit that he had a point. “Ok. This is what’s going to happen. We’re going to a new motel. You’re not going to try to run. And you’re going to stop pretending to be Tony Stark. And if you do all that, I’ll take care of that leg. Deal?”

Not-Tony glared at him. “Fine. Can I at least have a cigarette?”

“The sooner we get moving the sooner I can pick up painkillers.”

“I’ll smoke fast. You should probably take care of that nose, anyway. Trust you to nick a car with faulty airbags.”

Clint relented, digging the lighter out of his pocket to fire up Not-Tony’s cigarette before digging around in the back of the car for a spare t-shirt and a bottle of water, doing the best he could to wipe the blood off his face. His nose was smarting, almost definitely broken, and his lip was split, but he’d had a lot worse in his time. He’d deal.

By the time he was finished Not-Tony was crushing out the cigarette stub, looking slightly mollified. “Painkillers?”

“If you’re good, yes. Painkillers.”

It was another hour or so of driving before they passed another gas station that looked like it had a halfway decent stock of supplies. Clint paused just up the road from it to stash his bow and their supplies in the trunk of the car, out of Not-Tony’s reach.

“I need to leave you in the car,” he told Not-Tony. “And I’m guessing a locked door isn’t going to stop you for very long. So here’s your choice; you can be good and wait for me to come back with supplies to tend to your leg, or I can lock you in the trunk until we reach New York.”

Not-Tony chose to stay in the car.

Clint cast his eyes around the gas station for a potential vehicle replacement, but saw none. They were pushing their luck with how long they had had this car for - he’d need to find them a replacement soon.

Inside the station, Clint grabbed a couple of clean t-shirts to add to his food and medical supplies, as well as the additional item he had come in for. He approached the counter, muttering something about a football accident as the wide-eyed cashier rung up his total. When the cashier didn’t look convinced, offering and then insisting to call some medical help, Clint had grinned and announced something about only queers and fags needing help for something like a sporting accident and “A real man took it in stride.” The cashier’s face immediately clouded in dislike and disgust, quickly finishing their transaction and dismissing Clint as fast as possible.

Clint breathed a sigh of relief when he returned to the car to find Not-Tony still in the passenger seat. “There. Was that so hard?”

“Like you wouldn’t be taking every opportunity to run if you were in my shoes.”

“Yeah,” Clint admitted. “Yeah, I would be.”

_You're already running. Coward._

_I have to, Nat. You know that._

_You're needed elsewhere.  
_

_I'm needed anywhere_ but _there._

Clint handed Not-Tony a couple of painkillers and a bottle of water before taking two himself. “Is two enough?” Not-Tony asked. “You used to eat those things like candy.”

“I need my head clear. You want me to run off the road again? Actually, don’t answer that.” Clint put the car back into gear, the engine protesting. The skid hadn’t done it much good. “I’ll get a new one at the next motel.”

“You ever think about the poor people you’re leaving without a vehicle? What if they can’t afford to replace it?”

“I’ve fought gods and aliens and armies to make sure these people even have a chance of being alive long enough to own a vehicle. So yeah, I don’t feel so bad about it.”

Not-Tony settled back into the chair, wincing as the move jostled his leg. “Whatever lets you sleep at night, Barton.”

Nothing let him sleep at night. 

Not-Tony was asleep as Clint pulled into crappy motel number eight - or was it nine? He’d deliberately chosen the seediest one he could find - the fewer questions asked, the better. Not-Tony’s eyes fluttered, then squeezed shut again as he seemed to be overtaken by a fresh wave of pain. “Let me guess. Come quietly into the lice-ridden motel room, and I get more painkillers.”

“Now you’re getting it.”

Once they were in their room, Clint deposited Not-Tony on one of the beds and set about properly cleaning and dressing the wound. When he was done, he pulled out their new supplies, tossing Not-Tony one of the bags. “Clean clothes, food, water. Get changed, and if you need to use the bathroom, you should do it now.”

Not-Tony looked over to where Clint was emptying out a second supply bag, his eyes going wide. “You’re not serious. _”_

“Bathroom now, or you wait until morning.”

_You're really going to do it, aren't you, little brother?_

_It's not the same._

_How are we not the same? Barton blood always wins out._

Not-Tony cursed Clint out the entire time he was using the rachet straps to secure his arms to the headboard of the bed, making sure the clasps were well out of range of his fingers. He gave Not-Tony’s arms a tug to make sure the restraints were tight, ignoring the pounding in his head that was more from just his collision with the steering wheel.  He set his nose the best he could, although the painkillers were doing little to take the edge off the pain, or block out the memories that were fighting for attention in his mind.

_ Don't engage. Complete the mission. Then you can go home.  _

“You’re really doing this, aren’t you?”

Clint focussing on trying to ignore the sounds of Not-Tony fighting against the straps.

“You’re really taking me to them.”

“What did you think I was doing?”

“I thought you’d change your mind. Once you’d spent some time with me, realised it was actually _me_. I thought…” He broke off. “Or do you know it’s me, and you just don’t care anymore? Was the fallout from the Accords that bad? Enough to make you do this? Or was it something else? Later?” 

“Doesn’t matter. You’re not him.”

“I am. I _am_ , Clint. I’m back.”

Clint’s grip tightened around his bow. “You’re not.”

“How are you so sure?”

“Because.”

“That’s all I get? Because?”

“Because the real Tony Stark would have never tried to crash a car I was in to save his own skin.”

That response was greeted with silence. Clint sighed into the darkness as he tried to shut out the throbbing in his face long enough to grab at least a couple of hours of sleep. He thought he might have almost been unconscious when he heard it, the venom in the words enough to shake him back awake.

“Fine. We’ll do it the _other_ way then.”


	4. Victim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments, I love hearing your theories!

Not-Tony started with Loki.

The thought had been nagging and persistent ever since Clint pulled Not-Tony from the rubble, even though there was no evidence to support that his travelling companion was Loki and plenty of evidence against. Clint was pretty damn sure that the God of Mischief wouldn’t subject himself to being tied to crappy motel beds, no matter what grand scheme he might be planning.

But Clint thought of Loki anyway. He _always_ thought of Loki.

“I’m not him.” Not-Tony was jiggling his uninjured leg in the way he knew grated on Clint’s nerves. “You know that, right? You should know that.”

Clint had a mantra prepared by now, repeated over and over again in his head and, when it wasn’t enough, he asked Natasha or Phil’s voice to say it instead.

_Don’t Engage. Complete the mission. Then you can go home._

“You know _why_ you should know that, right?”

They had fallen into a new pattern. Clint would drive for as long as he could stand, find a new motel, give Not-Tony fifteen minutes to eat and use the bathroom, and then he’d tie him to the bed until morning. Every time it made him feel sick. Every night he did it anyway. 

The roads were starting to taking them into more populated areas, and Clint couldn’t risk tying Not-Tony up in daylight where they could be seen, couldn’t risk putting him in the trunk where Clint didn’t have eyes on him. And so it was during the long car trips that Not-Tony would talk, trying to push Clint’s buttons, trying to make him break.

Clint refused to let him.

_Don’t Engage. Complete the mission. Then you can go home._

“You were always scared he was going to come back for you. You never said, but we all knew. Any time we had to deal with alien stuff, you’d go all distant and cold. I used to joke that it was the only time you acted halfway professional.”

Clint remembered the day Tony had shown him his apartment in the Tower, all neutral grays with dashes of purple. It had been modern but comfortable and, even before Tony had known him well, slightly rustic in its feel.

“I have an apartment,” Clint had told him. “S.H.I.E.L.D. provides us with accommodation.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. provides you with a shoebox that doesn’t even have cable. Not that anyone is forcing you to stay here,” Tony had been quick to add. “I’m just saying you’re welcome to if you ever don’t want to make the trip back home after a mission. Or if you just need a place where you can sleep easy at night.”

Clint’s eyebrows had gone up at that. “What makes you think I don’t sleep like a baby every night? I’m sure you’ve heard Nat complain about my snoring.”

Tony’s hand had hovered in the air a moment before clasping Clint’s shoulder. “He’s not coming back,” he had promised. “He’s locked up somewhere in an Asguard prison. And even if he did, he’d have to fight his way through us first, and I don’t think he’s coming near the green guy again any time soon.”

Clint hadn’t thanked him. He wished he had.

“But you know the real reason he’d never come back for you, right?” And there it was, that awful venom that warned that Not-Tony was winding up for a gut punch. “Because you don’t _matter_ , Barton. He probably doesn’t even remember you. I bet you haven’t crossed his mind once, not since you stopped being useful to him. I mean, Hulk, Thor, even Widow, yeah - he remembers them. But you? Blip on the radar.” He snapped his fingers in Clint’s ear. Clint didn’t so much as flinch, keeping his eyes on the road. “Forgettable.”

Clint fought the urge the grin. Not-Tony was going to have to try harder than that if he wanted to get under Clint’s skin.

Of course, he did try harder. A lot harder.

“You know, I think I prefer this.” It was morning, and Clint was hurrying Not-Tony into their latest stolen vehicle, still rubbing the marks the straps had left on his wrists. “Not being bound to the bed; that is a situation that should be reserved for fantasies with Pepper only. But the honesty of it. Better than still pretending to be all buddy-buddy, right? Get everything out in the open.”

“Sure.” Clint fiddled with the radio, searching for something painfully loud. There had been times during Not-Tony’s diatribes when he’d been close to turning his hearing aids down, but he couldn’t risk it, had to have all five senses on high alert in case Not-Tony was planning another escape attempt.

“So in the interests in being honest, I should probably get off my chest the real reason I didn’t contact you when the Accords happened.”

“Doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t have fought for those damned things anyway.”

Not-Tony ignored him. “It wasn’t because of your family. How are they, by the way? For someone who cried over them for five years, you were awfully keen to abandon them to relive your glory days as Fury’s star pupil.”

Of course the radio was broken. The only thing that seemed to work was the iPhone jack, and it wasn’t exactly compatible with the burner phone concealed in Clint’s jacket. 

“I didn’t call you because I didn’t _think_ to _._ I mean, sure, you’ve had your moments. But when you’re at the point when you’ve got an indestructible sentient android with an Infinity Stone in their noggin fighting for your team, ‘guy with pretty good aim’ stops sounding that impressive.”

Clint gave up on the radio and put the car in gear. The engine stalled twice before he could get it to cooperate, but eventually it roared to life and he screeched out of the motel parking lot.

“So of course Steve ended up being the one to call you. He was scrambling for anyone he could get at that point. I bet he even went to the guy who talks to ants before you.”

“Probably,” Clint agreed. “He had some skills.”

“And you joined Cap for, what? For Wanda? To save someone who didn’t even need to be saved?”

Clint’s hands clenched a little on the wheel before he could stop himself. It was a tiny gesture, but Not-Tony seemed to notice because he smiled wolfishly as he realised he’d finally hit a nerve. “She’s an adult, Barton. She can make her own choices. She doesn’t need some washed-up circus freak projecting his guilt over her brother’s death onto her.”

_Don’t Engage. Complete the mission. Then you can go home._

“If you’re trying to make me crash again, that’s weak.”

_Dammnit, Clint._

_Sorry, Nat._

“He was what, sixteen? Still a kid, and he ended up filled with bullets saving your sorry ass. Not sure the trade-off was worth it, do you?”

_Don’t Engage._

“And you do what to repay him, exactly? Give his name to your son and drag his sister out of safety to fight in a war she had no business being in? Where is she now, Clint? While you’re off with your wife and your _actual_ kids?

_Wanda’s my kid too._

_I know, Clint,_ Phil told him. _She knows. She’s safe at the Compound. Don’t engage._

“If you can fix the radio I’ll let you have a cigarette.”

Clint had taken everything off Not-Tony bar the clothes on his back. He could have thrown what remained of the cigarettes away, but Not-Tony had formed a habit, and Clint figured he could use them as a bargaining chip down the line.

“I’m not fixing anything.”

_No, you’re not. You’re fucking everything up royally. “_ Sure? I’ll even let you pick the station. I never minded a bit of hard rock, although I’m more of a country man myself.”

Not-Tony’s lip curled. “ _Country music,_ Barton?”

“The lyrics tell good stories.”

“You disgust me.” It was so close to the regular banter he had had with Real-Tony, that Clint had to catch himself. Because that had been Fury’s third and final rule:  _Remember, no matter what he says or knows - this is not Tony Stark._

“Fine. No country. Rock only. Might even throw in a coffee if you stop trying to distract me.”

The coffee was more for Clint’s sanity than an incentive for Not-Tony. They were moving slower than ever now that Clint had to worry about Not-Tony trying to run or sabotage the mission. The constant switching of cars and endless nights of anonymous motels were necessary precautions, but costly ones, and Clint couldn’t risk driving long into the night or sleeping in the car with Not-Tony talking his ear off or looking for the first opportunity of escape.

It was approaching afternoon and the radio was blaring Led Zepplin when Clint spotted it. It was two lanes across from him, white and huge and such an obvious solution that he cursed himself for not thinking of it earlier.

Natasha would have thought of it earlier.

Clint changed lanes as subtly as he could, but Not-Tony noticed anyway, eyes narrowing at the change in direction, then noting the vehicle a few cars ahead of them.

Then, with a sudden kick of Not-Tony’s good knee, the radio was shattered.

“Hey!” Clint put a hand on the knife tucked into his waistband in warning, but the violent outburst wasn’t followed by anything but Not-Tony’s cold glare.

“Got tired of the music. What’s the point of a road trip if you can’t talk, anyway? Where were we? That’s right. Poor little dead Pietro. Not the only corpse rotting in the ground because of you, is he? Not by a long shot.”

Clint had known it was coming, knew that Not-Tony had been gearing up to here. He kept his eyes on his target, weaving through traffic, making sure not to get too close so as to be conspicuous.

“How many bodies, Barton? How many went down so your worthless ass could keep breathing? More than you can name, I bet. But I could name a couple. Let’s start with Phil Coulson.”

_Don’t Engage. Complete the mission. Then -_

“Skewered by Loki while pretending to be a hero. Remind me, _Agent_ , who led the attack on the Helicarrier that day? And don’t play the mind control card. Loki told you to take out the ship, sure. But he didn’t say how. He didn’t say _kill.”_

_It’s ok, Clint. It wasn’t your fault._

_It was, Phil._

_I wouldn’t lie to you. It wasn’t your fault._

“If only you’d been a little stronger. I mean, even Selvig managed to build a fail-safe into Loki’s portal. What did you do, Barton?”

The vehicle Clint was pursuing suddenly changed lanes, cutting off a driver and drawing out angry honks. Clint swore as he did the same, flipping off the driver behind him even though he knew he had been in the wrong.

“Nothing. You did nothing. And we both know why, don’t we?”

_Stay with me._

_I’m trying, Phil._

_Listen to me. Not to him._

“You could have fought harder. But you didn’t. Because you _liked_ it.”

_Don’t listen -_

“You liked being given free rein to attack and maim and kill. All those agents that turned their noses up at you for years. I mean, they had good reason to, but I think murder was taking things a bit far.”

Clint felt for Phil’s voice, but he couldn’t find it. He found another one instead.

_You have heart._

_Get out of my head._

_Never._

“What a day that must have been for you, to prove at last that you could take them all down with nothing but a bow and arrow and all that burning fury in your heart. Misplaced anger, though, wasn’t it? It wasn’t them you were really angry at. I gotta say, Legolas, I’m a little disappointed that we didn’t spend more time bonding over our collective daddy issues. Although, I will allow that you had it a lot worse than me. Dad was hardly a saint but at least he cared enough not to beat me to a pulp every time he’d had a drink, and Howard didn’t care at all. Not sure what that says about Daddy Barton.”

_You’re nothing without a little discipline, son._

_You’re nothing, period. Shut up._

“Although maybe better than caring too much, right? Like your brother. Loving. Protecting. _Possessive_.”

_Aren’t you going stand up for me, Clinton?_

_No way in hell, Barney. Piss off._

“You spend your whole life running from them and then you _become_ them. Just like I tried to save the world and ended up nearly destroying it. I guess we can’t run from ourselves after all. And you’ve tried so hard. So very, very hard. Tell me, Clint, was I the first friend you’ve tied to a bed to stop them leaving you?”

Clint tried to keep his face neutral. He focussed on the white vehicle instead. If he could just get there, get Not-Tony inside -

“Did you ever have to do it to Wanda, when you were dragging her into hiding when she could have been at home, safe with Vision, someone she _actually_ loved? Did she ever try to run from you, so you tied her down for her _own good_ , because it was _the safest way?_ ”

_Phil, Nat. Talk to me. Please._

_It_ was _for your own good, Clinton. It_ was _the safest way, for both of us._

He’d never done it to Wanda - he hadn’t needed to, she hadn’t wanted to run, had never tried to leave his side. He would never have done it even if she _had_ run. But that didn’t matter. Because he knew where Not-Tony was headed next.

“I guess there would have been no point. She could have just zapped those red sparkles and gotten loose. Natasha, on the other hand…”

Clint forced himself to control his breathing. The vehicle he was following suddenly changed lanes again, making a car in a far lane almost skid into the next lane of traffic. He was not going to feel bad at all about stealing this one. He followed, noting that they were now headed for an exit. Which hopefully meant that the vehicle would be stopping soon, which meant Clint would be stealing it soon, which meant he just had to put up with Not-Tony’s needling a little longer.

“You did it to her, didn’t you? Just like big brother Barney taught you.”

He had. There was no denying it. A mission gone wrong. Not Budapest, but similar. She’d hit her head. Lost her memories. And Clint knew, he _knew_ , that if she killed him in that moment she’d never forgive herself. It had been the lesser of two evils.

“Did you like it? Strapping down the Black Widow, seeing her all defenceless?”

_No. I hated every second of it, asshole._

“Barney liked it. But you knew that already, didn’t you? It made him feel safe. Knowing that you couldn’t leave him like everyone else. Of course, you did anyway, in the end. What was the longest he kept you there again?”

Five days. It had been five days. Barney had announced he had a job in the next town over, one too dangerous for Clint to come along on. And Clint had argued and protested and fought and Barney had tied him down and left anyway.

It had been the only time Clint had been sure Barney wasn’t going to come back. That his brother had finally gotten himself killed or drunk that one drink too many. He had tried to hold off on crying, trying to conserve water, his already voice raw from trying to scream for help through the gag. But he had broken on the third day, and then had hated himself for it. He had struggled until he bled, but Barney was used to tying knots for safety nets and circus animals, and there had been no give, no weaknesses for Clint to exploit.

Clint was almost dead by the time Barney had returned, with a store-bought cake and the expensive brand of orange juice, announcing that he had made them rich and from now on they were going to live like kings.

He had drunk away every dollar he had earned two nights later, leaving Clint tied up in their tiny shared trailer again to do so in peace.

“Did you like doing it to me, Clinton?”

_Don’t engage._

“So I can’t run away? So you know you won’t lose me again? Does it make you feel safe?”

_Complete the mission._

“Would you do it to Natasha if _she_ came back? If it was the choice between that and letting her throw herself off a cliff because she decided your sorry life was worth something, would you do it?”

_Then you can go home._

And, thank god, the white vehicle, the bright and shiny RV Clint had been following, was pulling over, into a car park of some chain restaurant, and arguing parents and crying kids were spilling out and Clint was moving.

He parked the car as close to the RV as he could, grabbing his bow and backpack and throwing himself out the door and racing around to Not-Tony’s side, moving as fast as he could because he could tell that Not-Tony knew - knew that once he was in that RV he wasn’t coming out until they reached S.H.I.E.L.D. Not-Tony was already scrambling, trying to get out of Clint’s range before Clint hauled him out of the car, keeping him in a chokehold and praying that no one was going to see and call the cops because this was a risk, a huge and stupid risk, but he couldn’t listen to it anymore, he _couldn’t._

It wasn’t hard to get the RV door open - the stupid parents had forgotten to lock it. Clint had about two seconds to relish that bit of good luck before he heard it.

“It’s your fault she’s dead, Clint. And you know what? _You weren’t worth it.”_

And Clint broke. Only for a second, only for a fraction of a moment, but it was enough. He turned to Not-Tony with the intent to attack and not restrain and was met instead with a stabbing pain in his side. 

Clint ignored it. He had no choice; Not-Tony was slipping out of his grip, preparing to yell, to call for help, and Clint was going to be damned if he had gotten this far to fail now. He readjusted his grip on Not-Tony and hauled him into the RV, tossing him back into a mess of tourist maps and discarded clothes and expensive plastic toys.

Not-Tony wasn’t done fighting. He lunged at Clint, slamming whatever he had plunged into Clint’s side a little deeper. Clint grunted in pain as he made another grapple for his prisoner, reaching for his bow and swinging it over Not-Tony’s head until the bowstring lay against his throat, and he stilled.

“Do it,” Not-Tony got out. “Go on. We both know you want to.”

A small part of Clint did.

Instead, he shoved Not-Tony hard into the tiny table in the middle of a small booth in the body of the RV. He emptied his backpack onto the floor and yes, there it was, the roll of tape that Not-Tony had used to fix their car, back when he was being amiable and so much like Clint’s Tony, and not this hateful creature that Clint just wanted to dump on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s doorstep and wipe from his mind.

There were a lot of things he would wipe from his mind, if he could. He didn’t know what that said about him.

Not-Tony cursed Clint’s head off the entire time the archer was restraining him, wrapping the tape around his wrists, then his torso, then his ankles. Clint tried to pretend that it was white noise, to shut out every venomous word this thing with his dead friend’s face was throwing at him. He couldn’t. Every word hit home, every dig about Pietro and Phil and Barney and Natasha, and oh god, especially Natasha. Not-Tony knew it, doubled down on it, spitting words and accusations and truths, yes, Clint couldn’t deny that there were truths, each of them driving into Clint’s heart until he finally wrapped the tape about Not-Tony’s mouth, over and over and over again, and finally, _finally,_ there was quiet.

Clint staggered as he turned his back on his struggling prisoner, already heading for the driver’s seat. He could hear Not-Tony still cussing at him, still trying to spit venom his way, but the words were muffled now, nothing more than hateful noise as Clint hot-wired the RV and sped off down the east highway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should be illegal to have this much angst. And yet there is more in the next chapter. All the angst.


	5. Prisoner

Clint drove for an hour non-stop on pure adrenaline until he remembered. _Oh yeah. Stabbed. Should probably do something about that._

Clint almost laughed when he finally looked down and saw the toothbrush poking out of his side.

“Son of a bitch,” Clint muttered, pulling the RV over to the side of the road, considering the full risks of this move for the first time. Sure, with no more need to stop at motels, he could keep Not-Tony restrained and gagged until they reached S.H.I.E.L.D. But without consistently switching cars, there was a higher chance of him being traced. Not for the first time, he wondered if S.H.I.E.L.D. was the only organisation after the man who looked and sounded like Tony Stark.

Then Clint felt the toothbrush shift inside him, remembered Not-Tony’s face as he had stabbed it into his side, and decided the risk was worth it.

The brush handle hadn’t gone in too deep, and Clint guessed Not-Tony had meant the move to be a distraction as opposed to a life-threatening injury. He pulled it out, wincing as he saw the sharpened end emerge from his bloodied t-shirt. How Not-Tony had done it, how he had kept it from Clint’s vigilant watch, Clint didn’t want to know. He wouldn’t be getting a chance to do it again.

He heard a muffled grunt as he examined the makeshift shiv, and looked back to where Not-Tony was glaring at him with malice.

“Screw you,” Clint muttered, before patching up the wound, staining a child’s blanket red.

The sun was beginning to set by the time he had finished, so Clint drove until he found an empty off-road parking lot with broken security cameras, and spent the evening rummaging through the RV. Anything he didn’t need he threw into the tiny room above the driver’s cabin, which looked like it had belonged to the crying children. The fridge was fairly full, the toilet and sinks functional. Clint swapped out his bloodied t-shirt for an expensive polo from the bedroom in the back of the RV before pulling a bottle of water from the fridge and downing it in one.

He heard a stifled question from behind him and turned to see Not-Tony staring pitifully at the bottle. “Thirsty?”

His prisoner nodded eagerly.

“Fine.”

Clint searched the RV’s kitchen until he found what he was looking for; a packet of plastic straws tucked into a back drawer. He crouched beside Not-Tony, who was eyeing him warily, then flinched as Clint pulled the knife from his jeans.

“Don’t freak out. I’m not going to hurt you - not if you stay still. Ok?”

Not-Tony gave a nod of understanding, but Clint placed his hand under his chin anyway, keeping his head still as he placed the knife against the tape. He clamped his fingers tighter when Not-Tony tried to jerk away. “Don’t. I don’t want to cut you by accident.”

Clint made a tiny slit in the tape, then placed the knife back in his jeans. “There. Done.”

He brought the water up to poke the straw through the hole in the tape, when Not-Tony started struggling manically, straining against the bonds and yelling insults Clint was glad he couldn’t understand. “I’m sorry, did you think I was taking the tape off? I may not be a genius but I’m not _stupid._ That stays on until we get to S.H.I.E.L.D. Then you’re their problem.”

Not-Tony shot him a look of panic that melted into rage as he threw another muffled string of curses Clint’s way. “Yeah, well,” Clint muttered. “You shouldn’t have brought up Vormir.”

He was tempted to keep driving, but he wasn’t sure he’d get a better spot to hide the RV overnight, so he collapsed into the foldout bed in the back of RV and pretended to sleep before he rose before the sun to keep moving, and found that Not-Tony was nearly free of his restraints.

“Shit!” Clint sprinted forward, bow on his back, knife at the ready, bending down to see that Not-Tony had managed to stretch out the tape around his wrists and was onto freeing his torso. Not-Tony gave a howl of frustration and rage as Clint jerked his hands away and held them firmly in his own, cutting off the escape attempt.

Clint cut away the rest of the tape to allow his prisoner to go to the bathroom before directing him to sit back against the table at knife-point. This time he wrapped the ratchet straps around him instead, taping over the clasps so they would be harder to undo, before feeding him water and one of the protein shakes he found in the fridge, adding in a couple of the painkillers for Not-Tony’s leg for good measure. Then he eased himself into the driver’s seat for the first day of quiet he’d had in nearly two weeks.

Except it wasn’t quiet. Because even though Not-Tony had been silenced at last, Clint could still hear him, the dark tone so in contrast to Real-Tony’s snarky banter or excited tech-babble or, occasionally, sincere concern.

_He was what, sixteen? Still a kid, and he ended up filled with bullets saving your sorry ass. Not sure the trade-off was worth it, do you?_

Clint tried to blink away the images of Pietro, tottering in place, red sprouting out of him like blooming roses.

_You could have fought harder. But you didn’t. Because you liked it._

Agents, colleagues, friends - dead at his hands. Waking up to find out that Phil was dead. That Clint had played a part in it.

_It’s your fault she’s dead, Clint. And you know what? You weren’t worth it._

“Damn you!”

Clint jerked the RV over to the side of the road, ignoring the angry honking, and buried his face in his hands as he slammed his fists into the wheel, again and again and again until he felt pain shoot up his drawing hand, shocking him out of the oncoming panic attack. He forced himself to breathe, forced his heart rate to slow. His hand was throbbing and he cursed himself for giving himself even more obstacles, for slowing this damn mission down even more.

_“Damn you!”_

Not-Tony probably thought he was yelling at him. _Let him,_ Clint thought savagely. But it wasn’t the thing in the back of the RV that the words weren’t aimed at, or at Fury for sending him on this goddamn shitshow, or even at himself.

_Damn you, Natasha._

_I had to, Clint._

_You didn’t. You really didn’t. I could have gone, would have gone, happily, with no regrets. The world needs you more. You would have done so much more good._

_That depends._

_On what?_

_On what you decide to do next._

He was crying, he could feel the tears leaking over his fingers, and he clamped one hand over his mouth, desperate that Not-Tony not hear, not know that he had gotten to him after all. Because maybe the words had been more than a distraction, more than trying to throw Clint off his game.

Maybe they had been meant as a parting gift.

Slowly, Clint pulled himself back. Wiped his eyes. Took a breath. And started driving.

He operated on autopilot for the next three days, like he was one of Real-Tony’s Iron Legion; a bot programmed to complete a task, and nothing else. Eating, driving, resting, if not sleeping. Making sure Not-Tony stayed hydrated, feeding him protein shakes and smoothies, and making him as comfortable as he could without giving him opportunities to escape.

He wasn’t like Barney. He _wasn’t._

_Keep telling yourself that, Clinton._

Not-Tony seemed to have cottoned on to Clint’s new mental state, because after the first day in the RV, he stopped fighting back. No more cursing, no more yelling, no more struggling. They were both staggering to the finish line in weary acceptance.

“Tomorrow.”

It was the first word Clint had spoken in days. Not-Tony looked up at him, the word sparking something in eyes that had otherwise grown dull.

“We’re arriving at S.H.I.E.L.D. tomorrow. This is going to be over.”

Not-Tony just nodded, shifting as much as he could in the restraints.

Clint could have driven through the night and reached S.H.I.E.L.D. by daybreak, but in his robotic routine, the idea didn’t even occur to him as he stumbled to bed after making sure that Not-Tony was secure, ready to wake, to feed him, and to drive the moment the sun had risen.

He was woken before then. For a split second, he was back at the farmhouse, next to Laura, with their golden retriever snuffling around their bed, waiting for them to wake.

Then he woke fully, and remembered. But the snuffling noise didn’t stop.

Clint was on his feet in an instant, lurching into the main part of the RV as he flicked on the lights.

Not-Tony jerked his head towards him, eyes bloodshot and desperate, snot dripping over the gag as he tried to take desperate breaths through his nose.

“ _Shit_.” Clint fell to his knees beside him, then paused as he remembered the so-called food poisoning. “If this is a trick -”

Not-Tony moaned desperately, struggling against the straps and tape, his attempts at breathing growing harsher.

“Shit,” Clint repeated, fumbling for the knife. Not-Tony gave a frightened yelp as Clint produced it from the back of the jeans, but Clint muttered “It’s ok” as cut away the tape over Not-Tony’s mouth, wincing a little as he realised how thick and tight he’d made the gag in his desperation to get him to stop talking.

The second the tape was off Not-Tony was gasping, pulling in deep breaths as Clint searched around for a spare cloth to wipe his nose. It was clear he had been crying, the skin around his eyes red and puffy.

“I’m sorry,” Not-Tony gasped. “Jesus, Clint, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t.” The word was flat and lifeless. The adrenaline burst was wearing off, and Clint just wanted to sink back into the numbness, to go back to being the robot with the mission and nothing else.

“I’m not trying to change your mind. I know you’re taking me to S.H.I.E.L.D. But I can’t leave things like that between us. What I said, Clint, please, I was just desperate, I was just thinking of myself, like I always do. I should never have said - ”

“Just _stop!_ ” Clint leaned back, fighting the urge to put his head in his hands, knowing only an idiot would take their eyes off Not-Tony when he was so clearly trying to pull something else, some new trick, something else that Clint didn’t want to deal with anymore. “Whatever you’re trying to get me to do, or not do, or whatever. I’m done, ok? It’s over.”

Not-Tony was still breathing fast, his cheeks an ugly red where the tape had been. “Ok,” he said in low voice. “No more tricks. I promise, alright? Just know that I didn’t mean a word of it. I was just trying to distract you, to bait you into doing something stupid -”

“Not your best plan.”

Not-Tony let out a bark of desperate laughter. “I’ve had worse. I know you’re going to see this through. No outs for me - not this time. My fate as S.H.I.E.L.D. guinea pig is sealed, whatever. But at least let me apologise for putting you through your own personal hell, even if you’re dragging me off to mine.”  


“Very poetic.”

“I thought so. I’ve had a lot of time to think over the past few days.” Not-Tony shifted slightly, and Clint flinched, readying himself, but then his prisoner was still again. “Pietro was a hero. He would have thrown himself in front of anyone. It just happened to be you.”

No. No, he wasn’t doing this.

“Phil wasn’t your fault either. It _wasn’t,_ Clint. Loki was a _god_ with an _Infinity Stone._ There was nothing you could have done.”

“Stop it. Whatever you’re trying to do. Just stop. Please.” The plea slipped out before he could stop it, and he hated himself a little more for saying it.

“I’m trying to apologise here, Tweetie. That’s not something people get from me often and I become a specimen tomorrow, so savor it while you can.”

“If you’re back to trying to convince me you’re the real Tony, you’re going about this the wrong way. I don’t think Stark apologised to me for anything ever. And vice versa.”

“A mistake,” Not-Tony muttered. “I changed, Clint. After Peter. After Morgan. I saw that there was more to life than money or legacy or trying to make up for past mistakes. I was beginning to learn it with Peter. And when I…when I lost him, when Morgan came along, I saw. They’re all that matters. You get that, right?”

“I mean it. Stop.”

“We should have talked more. Before the end. You never knew me like that, not really. Not as a dad. Not something I ever thought I’d be good at, but hey, I wasn’t half-bad. I think you would have liked that me. I think that’s a me you could have been friends with again.”

Tired. He was so tired.

“And Natasha…”

Clint froze. He didn’t want to hear this. He didn’t want to hear any of it. That it was his fault or that it wasn’t. 

He just wanted to rest.

"Nat made her choice. And god forbid anyone try to get in Natasha Romanoff’s way when she had chosen to do something. And I knew that was the worst thing I could have said to you and for that I am so sorry and - Clint? Clint, what are you doing?”

Clint was already on his feet, ignoring the fresh look of panic on Not-Tony’s face as Clint grabbed the duct tape from the kitchen bench.

“Clint, wait! Wait, just a second -”

“I told you to stop.”

“Clint! No, wait, please, I can’t _breathe_ \- ”

But Clint was already reapplying fresh layers of tape, silencing him again, ignoring the fresh tears in his prisoner’s eyes as he threw himself into the driver’s seat and started the engine. 

_Don’t engage. Complete the mission. Then you can go home._

Clint had driven only ten minutes when he stopped again. He could hear the muffled crying from the back, the short, aborted sobs he knew was Tony trying to stop himself, trying to keep his airways clear.

Not-Tony. Right. It was Not-Tony.

_Keep going, Clint._

_But, Nat…what if…_

_Focus on the mission. Keep going._

Clint’s foot hesitated on the accelerator.

_How did you do it? Complete every mission, even when you weren’t sure?_

_I was always sure._ _It was my mission. So I trusted those who gave it to me had their reasons, and saw it through._

Clint slammed on the brakes, tumbling out of the RV before he had brought it to a complete stop. He righted himself as he pulled out the burner phone, dialling the only number stored on it.

Fury answered on the first ring.

“Barton? What’s wrong?”

“Tell me it isn’t him.”

He was met with silence on the other end of the line. “Clint -”

“I know it’s not,” Clint interrupted. “Just…before I do this. I need to hear you say it. I need to be sure.”

Silence.

“Three rules. You gave me three rules. Don’t tell him anything about me. Don’t ask questions. And remember that this isn’t Tony Stark.”

“What did he say to you?”

Clint leant against the RV, feeling the rumble of cars passing him, making the vehicle tremble. “He remembered. Everything. He knows things, Nick, things only Tony…” Clint broke off, giving Fury a chance to cut in. He didn’t. “I’m following the rules, ok? I haven’t broken any. I’m still on the mission.”

“That's good.”

“I just need to hear you say it. Just once.”

“Agent Barton -”

“I’m not an agent, not anymore. I retired, remember? Until you pulled me back into this shitshow. Until you needed me to haul some creature with my dead friend’s face across the country.”

His voice was breaking, and he loathed himself for it, but he couldn’t stop himself, not now that he had started. “I’ve done everything you’ve ever asked. I knew my reputation at S.H.I.E.L.D. I knew you handed me all the tasks no one else would do, and I did them. Every one of them. Maybe because I thought that was the right thing at the time, or maybe because I trusted you, or maybe I just didn’t want you to kick me out because, before Laura, I had nowhere else to go. Until the Avengers. Until Tony.”

“ _Breathe_ , Clint.”

“Tell me it’s not him. Please, Nick. Just tell me it’s not Tony.”

Another car roared passed, something fast and sporty, vibrating the ground under Clint’s feet, knocking him off balance long after it had sped off into the night.

There was a long exhale on the other end of the line. Then, “Why don’t you just come into S.H.I.E.L.D. and we can talk about -”

Clint didn’t remember hanging up. He was already throwing himself back into the RV, slamming the door behind him. His prisoner was slumped over in his bonds, drawing thick breaths through his nose.

_“Tony?”_

The prisoner’s head jerked up, cautious hope in his eyes as he tried to say something through the gag. Clint rushed forward, ripping it off.

“Clint?”

Clint was already untying him, slicing through the tape and straps as fast as he could. “It’s ok. I’m here. I got you.”

The second he was free, Tony was slumping against Clint’s chest. Clint started to rub Tony's arms and wrists where they had to be numb from being bound for so long.

“I’m so sorry.” Tony’s words came out muffled against Clint’s shirt. “I shouldn’t have said it. Any of it.”

“It’s fine.”

“Or the car -”

“Tony, stop.”

“I didn’t want to go. I didn’t know how to convince you -”

“It’s ok.” It wasn’t. It was so very far from ok. He said it again anyway. “It’s ok. We’re not going to S.H.I.E.L.D. I’m getting you as far away from them as possible. After I murder Fury.”

Tony gave a wet chuckle as he pushed himself upright, wiping his eyes. He looked awful, pale and exhausted and rake-thin. That was Clint’s fault. He had done that to him. “That’s something I’d like to see.”

“I’m going to get you some food. Some real food.”

Clint went to prop Tony up against the table again, but Tony flinched away from being in the same position he had been tied up in. “Sorry,” Clint murmured, before hauling Tony up into the booth instead and moving to the fridge.

“I’m not sure I am me.” Tony’s words were low, cautious. “I don’t remember how I came back. I don’t remember much before you found me. It’s there, just blurry. It might come back, like the other memories did, but…” Clint returned with a hastily made sandwich, pushing it across the table. “I’m sure the S.H.I.E.L.D. labs would have found the answers after they sliced me up.”

Clint’s stomach lurched. He had almost…he had been so close to…

A gentle touch on his hand stopped that train of thought in its tracks. “You didn’t know,” Tony assured him. “Hell, Clint, if I had run into a perfect copy of you from ten years ago who has been acting like I’ve been, I would have had some pretty damn strong doubts too. Although I probably would have gone to Bruce before S.H.I.E.L.D.” His eyes lit up. “He’s in New York, isn’t he? Could we -”

“No.” Clint saw the look of disappointment on Tony’s face, and hurried on. “We all miss you, Tony. It still hurts - it will always hurt. But Bruce, Peter, Steve…everyone has started to get to a place where it doesn’t hurt quite as much. And I don’t want to undo that, not yet. Just in case -”

“Just in case S.H.I.E.L.D. gets me anyway.” Tony pushed away the empty plate, the sandwich all but inhaled. “Fury’s going to send more, isn't he?”

Clint rubbed his temples, the action doing nothing to decrease an oncoming headache. “I was meant to do this on my own to keep it off S.H.I.E.LD.’s books. But…yeah. Probably.” He pushed the headache away as best as he could. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll run. I’ll hide you.”

“What about Laura? Your kids?”

“They won’t go after them. Even Fury has his boundaries.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” Clint slouched back in his seat.

“Clint…I’m a dad now too. I can’t ask -”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering. They’ll understand. I haven’t exactly been…” Clint searched for the words. “I got them back. But they lost me. I can’t make five years of Ronin just go away.”

“Don’t use me as an excuse to run away from them.”

“I’m not.” Clint exhaled.

_ Complete the mission. Then you can go home._

_ Sorry, Laura. _

“Are you still hungry? Do you want another sandwich?” Tony was staring at him, clearly not ready to let the subject go. “Let’s get somewhere even more off the grid. Then we can talk about it, ok?”

“Fine. Clint?” Tony was twisting his fingers together, looking almost guilty. “I know this might be weird but…do you still have those cigarettes?”

Clint blinked, then checked his pocket. Sure enough, the now crumpled packet was still stuffed in his jeans. He hadn’t thought to throw them out. “Yeah. You want one?”

“I know I shouldn’t be smoking around you, but I needed something to take the edge of the stress and -”

“Tony. I shot you through the leg and kept you tied to a table for four days. You can have a damn cigarette.”

“You didn’t know.”

“You tried to tell me -”

“Then I tried to piss you off and stab you.”

“You were desperate. I get it - I’ve been there.” Clint handed over the box and the lighter.

“Last one,” Tony noted as he pulled it out of the box. He cracked the RV window before lighting it up and taking a long inhale. “Ever. I promise.”

“Do what you need to.”

Tony took a second puff, shorter than the first. “So running from S.H.I.E.L.D, huh? I wasn’t even sure that was possible.”

“It is if you know how S.H.I.E.L.D operates. And if you’re a paranoid bastard, which I am. I always kept a few safe places to myself, just in case. We’ll start with one of those. Ditch the RV, get a new car, go straight there.”

“Didn’t I build an impregnable compound full of superheroes? If we’re talking safety -”

“I don’t want to pull them into this. They’re just getting back to some semblance of normal. I’m not going to be the one to take that away from them."

Tony sighed. “They’ll come, Clint. Fury, S.H.I.E.L.D…they’ll catch up to us eventually.”

They would. Clint knew they would. “I don’t care.”

“They’ll haul you off somewhere. It’ll be the Raft all over again.”

“I’ll break out.”

“Or you won’t. The Compound is the only place -”

“It’s not an option. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do this just us.”

Tony sighed, a puff of smoke sliding out of his lips. The smell was putting Clint on edge. “Ok.” Tony’s tone was one of resignation. “Ok. We run.” _They’ll catch us._ It was unspoken, but it was there.

“We run,” Clint agreed.

“Thank you.” Then Tony was leaning into Clint’s chest, burying his head in his shoulder. “I mean it.”

“Don’t,” Clint muttered, massaging circles over Tony’s back. “Don’t thank me after I’ve put you through hell.”

“That hell hasn’t been one-sided. You’ve been my prisoner as much as I was yours on this little road trip of ours. And you didn’t know it was me. I did know it was you. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“If you keep apologising I’m going to lose any faith that you are actually Stark, you know that right?”

Tony didn’t banter back. His next words were soft, almost lost as he pulled himself tighter against Clint. “I’m so sorry.” 

Then he buried the still-lit cigarette into Clint’s neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst. Angst angst angst.


	6. Executioner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more world-building note: Bruce isn't Professor Hulk in this version. Not that I have anything against that ending for him, I just couldn't take the next few chapters seriously picturing Bruce as huge and green.

Clint was sitting outside Bruce Banner’s lab. He had been sitting outside Bruce Banner’s lab for the better part of forty minutes.

Not Bruce’s official lab - the facility in downtown New York, funded by Stark Industries, with every gadget and resource that the physicist could ever need and then some. No, Clint was parked in a faded blue Sedan outside Bruce’s _other_ lab. It looked like nothing on the outside, which was the point; a disused mechanics shop in a long since abandoned automotive district. But there was more lying underneath the facade. 

Bruce had never felt comfortable at S.H.I.E.L.D.; not surprising after finding out that they had been tracking him the entire time he thought he had been off-grid. Avengers Tower was the first place he had felt some semblance of safety for years, and with the Tower since shut down and sold (it was currently operating as an Iron Man museum), Tony and Natasha had joined forces to set Bruce up with a place that was entirely his own. Tony had kitted it out; Natasha had made sure it was off every government record and satellite.

Bruce wasn’t here and Clint had no intention of bringing him or any other Avenger anywhere near this. But this was as safe a place as any, until Clint figured out his next move, and where to bring Tony next.

Clint had almost killed him. The second he felt the familiar burn of ash on skin, he’d made to snap his neck. Instinct and impulse and muscle memory all kicked in and it was only Natasha’s voice screaming in his ear to hold back, to _think_ , that caught Clint in the knick of time as his arms fastened around Tony’s throat.

Tony hadn’t resisted him, hadn’t made a single move to avoid the deadly blow. They had sat in the twisted embrace for what felt like hours, with one of Clint’s palms on either side of Tony’s head. It would only take the smallest movement. Then Clint could go home.

_Sure, Clinton. Go home. I’ll be waiting there for you._

“Do it,” Tony finally got out.

_Yes, do it. You know you have it in you. Barton blood, remember?_

Clint let go.

So Tony lunged for the knife in Clint’s jeans instead. Clint was faster.

Tony ended up on the other end of the RV, landing with a grunt of pain, twisting around to see Clint advancing on him, knife in hand, and his face settled into a hard resignation. Acceptance. Clint lowered the knife.

“Goddamnit.” Clint sank back into the booth, face in his hands. His neck was on fire, the all too familiar sting of the burn growing by the second. He should treat it before it got worse. He didn’t move. “I told you we’d run. I said I’d help you.”

Tony sat upright, nursing fast-forming bruises. “Yes. You were. And S.H.I.E.L.D. would have caught us anyway, eventually.”

“So?”

“So, I couldn’t let you do that. Not for me.”

“Oh, and having your blood on my hands is better?”

_Like Phil. Like Natasha. Everyone you touch dies, Clinton._

_You were always such a drama queen, Barney._

The pain from the burn was increasing. Cold water, right? Something from the freezer maybe. The sooner he acted, the more damage he could prevent.

“You’ve been planning this from the beginning.”

Tony shrugged, not even bothering to deny it. “I wasn’t ever going to go to S.H.I.E.L.D. So yeah, I figured if it was a choice between being a living lab specimen or getting you to take me out, I’d take the latter.” _Tony Stark, ladies and gentlemen. Master of contingencies and fail-safes._ “I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to do it unless I really had to.”

“You _don’t_ have to.”

Tony gave him a sad smile as he got shakily his feet, limping to the fridge. “Hey so you may not have known this, but Dad and I weren’t the best of pals.”

“Gee, really? Wouldn’t have noticed.”

Tony hummed as he rummaged through the freezer. “I never really stopped resenting him, until the end. But I stopped hating him. Maybe I never really hated him in the first place, I don’t know. But the more time passed after his death, the less the bad memories seemed important. Jesus, Americans need to eat more vegetables. It’s a problem.” He retrieved a bag of what looked like frozen fish fingers and tossed them over the booth to Clint. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that we think better of the dead than maybe we should. It’s nice. A nice sentiment.”

Clint lifted the knife well out of Tony’s way as Tony sat down beside him. “Your point?”

“I bet they built memorials to me and everything, didn’t they? Savior of the universe? That kind of thing?” Tony guided the frozen packet clutched in Clint’s hand onto his neck. Cool relief started to deaden the sting of the burn. “That wasn’t me, Clint. Ok, yes, I helped out a fair bit at the end there. But that good ol’ Merchant of Death title? That was never really going to go away, not while I was alive. But we usually prefer to compliment people after they die. Erase their faults. Maybe we hope that means others will do the same for us.”

The fish fingers shifted, applying a cooler section of the plastic to the damaged skin. “It wasn’t so bad, dying,” Tony mused. “I mean, it hurt. And I was afraid. To feel your body shutting down like that, piece by piece…there must be worse ways to go, but still. Would not recommend.” He let out a long breath. “But I was ok with it. Because I knew they were going to be ok. Morgan, Pepper, Peter, Rhodey, the team…you were all going to be ok. I got to rest knowing that. That’s what it felt like, right at the end. Coming to rest, knowing my journey was done. That I had left the universe better off than when I entered it. I was lucky; that’s a gift few people get at the end. And I wish she was here, of course I do, but I’m so glad that Natasha had that gift as well.”

Clint shoved the makeshift icepack away and immediately regretted it as a fresh surge of pain stemmed from the burn. “Don’t.”

“Ok, ok. I won’t talk about that.”

“Did this little speech have a point?”

“Getting there. I don’t want to end up as a specimen in some lab. And I certainly don’t want you to end up in a super max holding cell - not because of me. Once was enough, thank you very much.”

_Don’t engage. Failed._

“And we can’t run forever. I can’t do that to you either. You need to be with your family. You _deserve_ to be with your family.”

_Complete the mission. Failed._

“I’m sorry I tried to provoke you into hurting me - the car crash, what I said, all of it. Because that’s what I do. I see the endgame and I aim, all systems go until we get there. It’s why Steve and I could never see eye-to-eye. And if I’m ok with being dead, which I _am_ , then I decided my endgame was getting you out of this before you do something stupid like piss off S.H.I.E.L.D., or get separated from your family, for good this time.”

_Then you can go home.  
  
_

  
“I couldn’t let that happen, Clint. Even if I needed to goad you into doing something pretty fucked up to prevent it.”

_Failed._

“I can’t go back to the farm.”

“You can,” Tony insisted. “Just leave me the knife. I’ll take care of it. I’m ok with it, alright? My time came; I got to rest. And I want you to be able to rest too. You’ve earned that as much as I did.”

“I can’t go back to them.”

The makeshift icepack had long since grown warm. Clint pushed it away.

“I can’t,” he whispered. “Not because of this mission, or S.H.I.E.L.D. Not even because of you. Because even before Fury called, before he asked me to do this…I couldn’t be with them.”

He hadn’t told anyone. He hadn’t been able to tell anyone. They wouldn’t understand.

Natasha would have understood. She also would have kicked his ass and told him to get over himself. 

“For five years that’s all I wanted.” Clint leaned back into the booth, burying his head in his hands. “I would have died a hundred times over to bring them back; to be with them again. And now they’re here. They’re at the farmhouse.” He let out a shaky laugh. “And I can’t bear to be around them.”

He felt Tony shift closer, as though he had been about to offer some form of comfort, then changed his mind.

“Five years for me,” Clint continued. “Five seconds for them. I got them back but they lost me. They lost me the second I put on the Ronin mantle. Or maybe before then, who knows. Maybe they never really had me in the first place - not all of me. Not the way Nat did.”

He pressed his hands against his eyes, seeing stars, vaguely aware that the knife was still clasped in his fingers. “I loved her,” he admitted. “Not like Laura. It was never a competition. Love is more than what people give it credit for.”

Love was a lingering kiss and a safe place to sleep. Love was cleaning the blood off another’s hands even if it meant staining your own. Clint had had both. Now he had neither.

“It’s not too late,” was the quiet reply.

“It’s been too late for a long time,” Clint whispered. “I don’t want them within a hundred miles of me; not after Ronin.” He started to twirl the knife between his fingers instead. “I’ve let myself go before,” he said, barely audible. “What you said, about Loki -”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“-you weren’t wrong. The violence. A part of me likes it. A part of me _needs_ it.” He took a breath. “I’ve always known that. Let it out from time to time. It’s what made me a good agent. It’s kept me alive, kept others alive. But I’ve always reeled it back in before it was too late. I’ve always been able to put that part of myself away. And then I lost them, and there was nothing to stop being that alone and nothing else.”

“Talk to them. They’d understand.”

“Would they?” Clint buried the knife in the table, so deep that the plastic split almost in two. “Do you know how long it took for Barney to change from protecting me from our dad to becoming worse that he ever was? Two months. That’s all. There’s violence in my blood - there always has been. And for the first time, I was given completely free reign with it. To kill whoever I thought needed killing and call it justice. You weren’t wrong in all that stuff you said.”

“I was just pushing your buttons.”

“No better way to do that than with the truth.”

“No better way to do that than with what your target _thinks_ is the truth,” Tony corrected him. “And, yeah. You’re not a saint. Neither am I. Was I. Whatever. We all have our dark spots, and ours might be darker than others. It’s whether we act on them or not that matters.”

“I _did_ act on mine. What, was I meant to go back to flipping pancakes and fixing tractors after five years of _that?_ They’re better off without me. I’m not feeling sorry for myself. That’s just the truth. Violence doesn’t belong in a family.”

“It was never aimed at them.”

“It was only a matter of time.”

Tony sighed as he leaned back in the booth. “I’m sorry I burned you. That was low.”

“Yeah. It was.” Clint agreed. “So are you done?”

“With which part?”

“You trying to kill yourself. Trying to save me, whatever. There’s not a whole lot here to save anymore.”

They were both quiet for a beat longer, then Tony said, “Fine. I’ll stay, ok?”

“You’re not going to try to kill yourself? Because I really don’t want to have to tie you up again.”

Tony made his way back over to the freezer, fishing around for something else to treat the cigarette burn. “I’m not going to leave you alone, Clint.”

They’d driven the rest of the night and into the next day, ditching the RV and Clint’s phone in a lake and picking up the sedan just outside of New York before then driving to Bruce’s lab. Clint hadn’t been here before, and surveyed the disused shop with a raised eyebrow. “Even I would question that a super-secret Banner/Stark lab was here.”

“Yeah, well. That was the idea.”

Clint scrubbed at his eyes, trying to push away the cloying exhaustion as Tony led the way around the back, gesturing to a panel on the wall that looked like a regular security system. “Code?” Clint asked.

“There isn’t one. Anytime sometime tries to put one in alarms get raised. Fingerprints only.”

Clint waited a beat before he realised what Tony meant. “It’ll take mine?”

“Of course.”

“Any Avenger can open it?”

“Well, not quite. You, me, Nat, Bruce, Steve, and Rhodey. Although Bruce might have added some of the Avengers who came back from the Snap by now, I don’t know. But it’s going to raise some serious question marks if I open it so…” He gestured to the panel, and Clint obliged.

Tony Stark had always had something of a penchant for secret doors.

The door slid open with a whoosh as they stepped into an elevator. “Three floors,” Tony explained, gesturing to the buttons. “First is your usual labs, R&D, all that stuff. Second floor is for more, shall we say, extreme testing? Bruce had some ideas about the Hulk after coming back from Asguard. Not sure if he ever pulled that off or not.”

“Not the last I heard.”

“When _was_ the last you heard?”

Clint shrugged. “I’ve seen them around.”

“Do they know you’re not at the farmhouse?”

“That’s not their burden.” He shot Tony that clearly told him to drop it. “What’s on the ground floor?”

“Living quarters. Fully furnished and stocked. Could live for years down there. They wouldn’t see helping a friend as a burden, if you talked to them.”

Clint pointedly ignored him. “Bit overkill, isn’t it? This place?”

“You know me. Always trying to think of every option.” He looked like he was going to say something else, something more about the rest of the team, but (wisely) decided to drop it. “Where do you want to go first? Living quarters?” He pushed the button for the lowest floor and the elevator started to descend. “Shower, bed? The water pressure here is amazing.”

And god, didn’t that just sound heavenly. “Maybe.”

“Even you can’t stay vigilant forever, Barton. This place is completely off S.H.I.E.L.D’s radar. That said, they weren’t looking for it before. Now…”

“It’s fine,” Clint cut in. “For the time being.”

The elevator doors dinged open and Clint fought not to look impressed as he saw what looked like both a luxury apartment and a reinforced doomsday bunker rolled into one. “Nice, right?” Tony stepped out of the elevator first, gesturing around. “If you’re going to hide from a government agency, might as well do it in style. I reckon we’ve got a least a few days before they come banging on the door. Plenty of time for you to sleep, and rest, and for us to talk about you not running away from the most important thing in your life -” He broke off at Clint’s death glare, his hand brushing a shelf of books. Clint felt a pang as he saw the row of trashy crime thrillers that were definitely supplied by Natasha, now covered in a thin layer of dust.

“I can see there’s no point having this conversation until you’ve had a hundred hours of sleep,” Tony admitted. “Pick a bedroom, we got a few.”

Clint’s hand shot out, catching Tony’s wrist. Tony raised his eyebrow at him, opening his hand to show it was empty. “You really need to sleep, man.”

Sleep. Yes. And leave Tony unattended in a state of the art lab with direct communication to the other Avengers.

“You can’t call them,” Clint insisted. “They can’t be involved in this. They _can’t._ They’re moving on, healing. Getting actual lives. I’m not going to compromise that for them.”

Tony bit his lip, unsure. “I really think you should talk to someone. About Laura. About the farmhouse. You don’t even have to mention me.”

“No.”

Tony winced and Clint realised he was still gripping his wrist. He hastily let go, staring at the red marks. There would be bruises there in the morning.

Tony hastily put his hands behind his back, leaning against the bookshelf. “I’m fine. Call them, Clint. They’ll help.” 

“They already did.”

Tony went to push further but Clint waved him off. _Rest,_ his body urged him. _Please rest._

“Ok, bedtime for you,” Tony decided. “I won’t call them, ok? I don’t want to involve them in this either. I guess if I thought one of them died, and then they were back, only for S.H.I.E.L.D. to haul them off somewhere I wouldn’t see them again…yeah, I wouldn’t cope very well with that either.”

Clint muttered some automatic response about S.H.I.E.L.D. never finding them that neither of them believed. It was only a matter of time.

_What are you doing, Clint?  
I don’t know anymore, Phil._

“You can tie me up again if you need to,” Tony offered quietly. “If it helps you rest - you have my permission.”

_See, Clinton? Doesn’t it give you peace of mind? Knowing he won’t leave you the moment you turn your back?_

Clint hated that that was true.

“It’s fine,” Tony reassured him. “There’s restraints down here meant to keep a Hulk in check. Clint, please, you’re not thinking straight. Just sleep, even for a few hours, so we can have a real conversation about what to do next.”

_Sleep. Rest._ “You won’t call them?”

“No. You’re right, they shouldn’t be a part of this. They should be allowed to heal.”

Clint sighed, eyeing one of the very inviting king beds. Tony held his wrists out, crossed over one another. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

Clint jerked his head to one of the bedrooms, indicating Tony to go first. “There’s a shower,” Tony offered. “Let’s be honest - we could both use one. I’ll stay in sight the whole time, ok?”

Clint allowed Tony to go first, propping up on the edge of the sink. “For the record,” Tony said, before he turned the water on. “You should let yourself heal too.”


	7. Defender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your support and and patience with this fic. It's the most challenging one I've ever attempted, I'm about a hundred miles outside of my comfort zone, and I've re-written this chapter so many times I've lost count. 
> 
> If you're still here, if you're still reading, thank you. It means everything.

“Tell Fury I’m dead.”

They had been in the bunker/lab for five days, and Clint still hadn’t slept. He knew, somewhere in his tired brain he knew, that that was impossible. He’d been on the wrong end of sleep deprivation before - awful, horrible, living-nightmares-while-still-awake sleep deprivation - and this wasn’t that.

But he couldn’t remember sleeping. He’d tried. He had lain in bed staring at the bedroom ceiling for hours, with voices he didn’t want to hear swirling around his thoughts, Tony’s stifled breathing at the end of the bed. And he knew that sleep must have come. At some point.

But he didn’t feel it. He didn’t remember it. It did nothing to soothe the ache in his bones.

Clint was sitting cross-legged on the floor, cleaning his bow, Tony pacing the kitchen best he could on his still-healing leg, as the seventh (eighth?) coffee that day was brewed, despite the fact that it was well into the evening. Clint noted that they were going to have to replace the supplies they were digging into at some point, so as not to tip off Bruce, or any other visitors to the facility, that they had been here.

Tony had waved him off when he had first raised the point. “I stocked this place so Bruce could live down here for years if he needed to.” At Clint’s raised eyebrow he had added, “Oh, you think that’s overkill? So is exiling yourself to space for two years. I wanted him to have options if he needed them.”

Options. They sounded like a luxury right now. Not that Tony wasn’t trying.

“I mean it.” Tony finally stopped pacing, but only because the ding from the kettle announced that the coffee was ready. “Tell him I’m dead.”

“Dead,” Clint repeated flatly.

“Yes. _Yes_. Hear me out.”

Clint fought back a sigh, but his body decided it was too tired and he let it out anyway.

Tony glared at him. “Oh I’m sorry, Tweetie, I don’t see you coming up with any other options than wait for S.H.I.E.L.D. to find us and drag me off to the dissection lab and you to some supermax birdcage.”

“You said this place was off-grid.”

“For now. But even if S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t find us, someone is going to come here eventually.” He saw Clint’s blank expression and rolled his eyes. “You didn’t see the labs upstairs? They’ve been used. Recently. Maybe Bruce does his Hulk research here, where no one can find it. Or something else. Doesn’t matter. Point is, he’ll be back here eventually.”

That made Clint still, freezing halfway through wiping down the bow grip. Tony must have noticed, because he crossed the room so he was sitting opposite him, pressing a sorely needed coffee into his hands. “I agree with what you said, before.” Tony took a long sip from his mug, draining half the steaming liquid in one. “You’re right - we shouldn’t involve the others in this. I don’t want them in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s bad books any more than you do.”

“So we run?”

“So _I_ run.”

“We’re been through this. I’m with you, no matter what.”

Tony huffed, frustrated. “But you don’t have to be. And you _shouldn’t_ be.”

“It’s too late. I already walked out on Fury, failed the mission. They’re coming for me as well as you now.”

“That’s why I’m saying - tell Fury I’m dead. Tell him I got the best of you. I know, I know,” Tony hurried on, seeing Clint’s face. “No one gets the best of you, one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s top agents, the Amazing Hawkeye, whatever.”

“He won’t buy it for a second.”

Tony was twisting his hands, suddenly not wanting to look Clint in the eye. “Well, I thought we could make it…convincing.”

“Fury’s not _stupid,_ Tony.”

“Yeah, but he’s certainly not smarter than me.” Tony cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “But I know it’s going to take a fair bit of convincing. So I’d have to hurt you, uh, pretty bad. Nothing permanent. But at least, say, one leg out of commission.”

“Gee, thanks. Great plan, shellhead.”

“A few shitty weeks in medical or a life on the run. Scratch that - a few days on the run and then a lifetime in prison. If they don’t shoot you in the head first. I don’t think S.H.I.E.L.D. forks out memory removal for rogue agents.”

Clint kept cleaning his bow. He’d been cleaning it for five days. It still felt dirty. Tainted. He started over.

“And then when they find you, when they finish patching you up - tell them I’m dead. You got away. You killed me. I killed myself, whatever.” Clint slipped as he moved onto the grip. Tony noticed, adding “Not that I’d actually do it. I said I was past that, ok?”

“I know what you said.” It wasn’t that Clint didn’t believe him. It was that he didn’t believe him enough. “I wouldn’t have a body to show S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Wouldn’t be a problem,” Tony replied, then amended, “We would get around that problem. You’re not going to be anyone’s star pupil anymore, but we could make it work.”

“Fury wouldn’t buy it.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Tony agreed. “But it’s a good enough story that he could _pretend_ to buy it and let you off the hook without losing face. Come on,” he added at Clint’s incredulous glance. “Fury’s always had a soft spot for you - as much as Fury could, anyway. He’s not going to throw you to the wolves if you give him a way out.”

“And you?”

Tony shrugged. “I’d work it out. I always do. Come on, Clint,” he pressed. “You don’t want to be here. Not really.”

“The company does leave something to be desired.” Clint shouldered his bow and stood. “Time for bed.”

“It’s 9 pm!”

Was it? There were no windows on the bottom floor of the lab. It was easy to think that time wasn’t passing at all, that Clint had entered a bubble where it was just him and Tony. Tony, who had never died, because it had always just been him and Tony and the underground bunker without sunlight, no before and no after.

“I’m tired.”

Tony sighed but didn’t resist as Clint led them into the bedroom, slumping at the foot of Clint’s bed. Well, he supposed it was Bruce’s bed, really.

“It could work,” Tony pressed, as Clint began the process of looping the torn sheets around Tony’s wrists and torso. Clint hadn’t trusted the restraints Tony had said were in the upstairs labs. If Tony had invented them, Tony knew how to get out of them. No, he had more faith in knots tied by his own hands.

_You learned from the best, Clinton._

_Yeah. I guess I did._

_Brothers till the end._

“Tell him I’m dead,” Tony pleaded, as Clint moved onto his legs. “It’s a good plan. It’ll work.”

“Open your mouth.”

Tony sighed as his head hit the footboard. “Can't you just leave it off for one night? Please?”

“I don’t trust you not to swallow your tongue.”

Tony looked as though he was about to argue further, then let his jaw drop open for Clint to press a wad off torn up sheet between his teeth, then use another strip to tie it in place. Clint checked every knot twice, making sure Tony couldn’t move, then stripped off and collapsed into the bed.

He was exhausted. He should be asleep in seconds. His body ached for it.

_What are you doing, Clint?_

_I’m saving him, Nat._

_Are you?_

Clint felt for the knife he kept under the pillow, gripping it for comfort. It provided little.

He blinked and the clock numbers showed that an hour had passed. The clock was wrong. It had to be wrong. 

Time didn’t make sense anymore. Nothing did.

After the second blink and jump of the clock, Clint gave up on sleep and hauled himself out of bed, pulling on clothes and shouldering his bow. He heard a hopeful sound from Tony that turned indignant as Clint moved towards the door without making any moves to free him. “Get some sleep, Tony. One of us should.”

Clint made his way to the labs upstairs, grumbling as always by how long the elevator took to get to each floor. A state of the art lab, and Tony couldn’t have designed a faster ride between levels?

He didn’t have a plan for what he was going to do in the labs; he never did. That part of the superhero gig had always been beyond him. He had been happy to leave it in Tony and Bruce’s capable hands, only stopping by to pick up the modified arrows Tony built for him. Clint had had a running battle of wills with the mechanic for a while, requesting more and more impossible arrows, trying to find the one that Tony couldn’t invent. When Tony had invented the arrow that doubled as a portable coffee filter and kettle, Clint had reluctantly given up.

Tony had been right about the lab being used recently. There were scattered research papers and scribbled on whiteboards that were barely a fortnight old, which meant at some point Bruce was going to return to continue whatever it was he’d been working on here. Clint didn’t intend to be here when he did.

There had been times, when the exhaustion had threatened to finally take over, that Clint had considered calling them; had been tempted by how easy it would have been to pick up the phone and let Bruce or Steve take over. 

He would shoot down the thought whenever it arose. He’d seen them at Tony’s funeral - Bruce’s grief, Steve’s guilt. He had seen them in the following months, slowly coming back into themselves, recovering from the battle and the losses they had taken. Now, they were finally able to celebrate what they’d gained, what they’d worked and fought and sacrificed so much for.

It had taken time, but they were doing well. Really well. Bruce was constantly being honored for one discovery or another, and with Ross at last retired from both the military and the government, Bruce had finally allowed himself to breathe easier in public, no longer on the run, finally at home.

Steve had also found a new equilibrium. He still worked with S.H.I.E.L.D., and with the Avengers on the more important missions. A few weeks after Tony and Natasha’s funerals, however, Steve had stepped back to allow Sam Wilson to take the reigns, saying something about experiencing some of the life Tony had been telling him to get. There was a girl in the picture, Clint was pretty sure. Sharon. That was it. They had seemed good for each other. Happy.

Clint would kill before he let that happiness be tainted.

He blinked at the clock on the wall, then did a double-take. It was probably broken. It had to be broken. He hadn’t been sitting there that long. Had he?

The next second Clint was on his feet, hurling curses at what had to be the slowest elevator in the world. He burst out of the doors the second they dinged open, racing back to Bruce’s bedroom. Tony’s head shot up as Clint reentered, making a muffled protest as Clint collapsed to his knees next to him, pulling apart the knots. “Sorry. I’m so sorry. I lost track of time.”

Tony gagged and coughed as Clint pulled the cloth out of his mouth. Clint had designed the makeshift restraints to be as comfortable as possible, but leaving anyone in the same position for too long eventually led to pain - something Clint had experienced firsthand too many times to count.

“You lost track of time?” Tony choked, rubbing feeling back into his wrists. “What the _hell_ , Barton?”

“Sorry,” Clint said again, untying Tony’s legs. He looked up to see Tony watching him with a wary expression. “I’m just tired. Haven’t been sleeping.”

The wariness turned to anger. “You sleep all the time! I know because you wrap me up like goddamn mummy every time you need a power nap!” Finally free, Tony curled himself into a ball, burying his face in his hands. “I can’t do this anymore, Clint.”

“I need to keep you safe.”

Tony shook his head. “There’s safe and then there’s…” He trailed off, deciding not to finish that thought. “Tell Fury I’m dead.”

“No.”

_“Why.”_

“Come on, I’m awake now. You’re free. I’ll make breakfast.”

Tony let out a sound of frustration at the change of subject, waiting until Clint got to the door before he said, “I’d give anything to be in your position. Do you know that?”

Clint turned back, staring at him in disbelief. “I’m sorry - what exactly about this position is enviable?”

“You could just go home and see them. Just like that.”

_Yes, Clinton. Go home._

“You know I can’t.”

“You _can_.”

“I told you. What I did in those five years - there’s no going back. I’m not bringing violence into their home.”

“Your home.”

“Not anymore.”

Tony got shakily to his feet, still rubbing away the pins and needles in his limbs. “Do you know what I’d give to have what you have? To get see Morgan grow up? To get to see Peter graduate high school, to see him off to college? I know I can’t, probably not ever - S.H.I.E.L.D. will be watching them, waiting for me to go to them, and I’m not pulling them into whatever this is.”

“I’m making coffee. I assume you want some.”

“But you have that, with Cooper and Lila and Nate. Wanda as well. She already lost Vis - don’t make her lose you too.”

“Tony.” Clint turned around, fixing him with a look. “Stop. I don’t want to make you.”

Tony stopped. For two days. Then there was a second incident with clock numbers that magically changed in the blink of an eye, and then he wouldn’t let up.

“I’d rather be dead for real,” Tony had spat at him as Clint unwound him from the bed, removing the temptation to leave him there, as he had in the RV. “If my choices are S.H.I.E.L.D. lab experiment, dead, or being chained to you forever, I pick dead.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“This was longer than last time!”

Tony wriggled his wrists as Clint untied his ankles and knees. “Stop. Fighting the knots makes them pull tighter.”

Tony gave him a death stare that would have made Natasha proud. “Yeah, I noticed.” When Clint got to his wrists, he realised that Tony had pulled them too tight to undo, and had to cut the bonds apart with the knife instead. “I agreed to let you tie me up to help you rest. Apparently, it’s working too well.”

That wasn’t right. Clint wasn’t resting. Clint hadn't slept in a week.

Clint cut away the final tie, wincing when he saw that Tony’s wrists were red and bruised from pulling at the bonds.

“You know there’s a Hulk containment room upstairs,” Tony suggested. “Impenetrable from inside.”

“No.”

“I don’t love it either, but at least I’d be able to move around."

“You built it. You know how to get out of it.”

Tony threw up his hands, exasperated. “What exactly do you think I’m going to try, Clint?”

_You don’t think he’s going to try anything. You just enjoy this. You enjoy him not being able to leave you._

_I hate this, Barney. Shut up._

_He will leave you, Clinton. Like Phil. Like Natasha. He’ll try to be a hero and sacrifice himself for your worthless ass._

Hulk. Bruce. Team.

“We can’t stay here much longer.”

“I agree. But where is safer here?”

“We’ll work it out. We have to leave before Bruce comes back. I’m not involving them.”

“That’s the one thing we agreed on, remember?” Tony gave a hiss as he stretched out his back. “Ok, hear me out. If you insist on wrapping me up still, let’s try a new position, at least. I think my age is catching up with my memories here.”

Clint couldn’t tell if Tony was older or just as exhausted as he was. 

_Is this what your so-called protection looks like?_

_It’s what yours looked like, Barney._

“We need a plan,” Tony pressed him. “This isn’t sustainable. Sooner or later Bruce is going to come to the lab, or S.H.I.E.L.D. is going to find us, or you’re going to space out and leave metrussed up somewhere until there’s nothing left for you to save.” Tony leaned forward, taking one of Clint’s hands. “You don’t have to go back to the farmhouse. Actually, I agree it’s best if you don’t.”

Clint blinked at him, his tired brain trying to make sense of the words. “Did we just agree on _two_ things?”

“You’re right,” Tony pressed, and now Clint was definitely confused. “You’re not…maybe you shouldn’t be around them. Not right now, at least.”

“Not ever, Tony.”

“I still don’t believe that’s true. But yes, first…look, Clint, I’m just going to say this. You need help.”

Clint tried to take his hand back but Tony latched on with both of his, as though Clint would float away if he let go. Maybe he would.

“We’ve seen this before,” Tony continued softly. “You’ve gone to places where it’s been hard to bring you back. Where we’ve been scared we couldn’t bring you back. But we have - every time.”

“We?”

“You don’t need to tell them about me,” Tony hurried on. “I agree, they shouldn’t know. They shouldn’t go through any of that.”

This time, Tony let Clint move his hand away, but didn’t drop the subject. “They wouldn’t take you back to medical, or anything. Not unless they thought they had to. And I’d help you myself, but I think me being with you is part of the problem.” He took a deep breath, then added, “I know I’ve made it worse. I swear, Clint, I didn’t know. I thought you were at home with Laura and the kids, I thought you could take it.”

“Stop.”

“I never would have said those things, or used the cigarettes, if I knew you were -”

“What?” Clint snapped at him. “Crazy?”

“Unwell,” Tony finished.

“I’m just tired. That’s all.”

Tony leaned back against the bed, eyes closed. “Yeah, sure. Just tired. Good one, Barton.”

When Tony tried again, Clint was back to cleaning his bow. This time, surely, he’d get it clean. Properly clean. This time he’d wipe the taint away. “I’m sorry you couldn’t save them.”

Clint didn’t even look up. 

“Natasha. Phil. I’m sorry.”

“Is that something you really want to bring up when there’s a weapon in my hands?”

“Saving me isn’t going to bring them back.”

“That’s not what this is.”

_He’s right, Clint._

_Not like you to agree with Tony Stark, Phil. Phil?_

“They didn’t need saving. They made choices. So did I. If anyone needs saving -”

“If you say “it’s you”, then I’m going to fire this arrow.”

“- it’s you.”

_You’re well past saving._

_I know, Dad._

“Talk to Steve.”  


“No.”

“Bruce, then. They’d both understand. They’d both help.”

Clint eyed his bow. He couldn’t remember where he’d left off. He started again, just to be safe.

The next time Clint ‘spaced out’, as Tony called it, a day and a night passed with Tony tied up at the end of the bed. Tony didn’t talk to him for two days. Clint welcomed the silence.

Clint knew they had to leave. The imminent threat of Bruce returning, or S.H.I.E.L.D. finding them, or leaving Tony helpless for too long was becoming oppressive, hanging over both of them. Tony had given up trying to plan, or persuade, or bargain. They were both falling into the ever-growing quiet of the bunker, slipping closer and closer to an edge, on the other side of which was a sharp drop with no return.

Sometimes, Clint would see a way out. Tony’s plan for the fake death wasn’t terrible. Fury wouldn’t believe it for a second but maybe, just maybe, it would be enough for Fury to justify letting Clint off the hook - to let Clint go home in peace. Tony would slip off into the world, no more S.H.I.E.L.D. on his back, getting to live out the rest of his life, as he should have been able to do in the first place. He wouldn’t get to be with Pepper or Morgan or Peter or the team, not if his faked death to was believed. But he would get to _be_.

It was a path of thinking Clint found himself going down more and more often, and it always ended with him lashing Tony to the bed and staring at the ceiling until morning.

_You know why you’re doing it, don’t you, Clint?_

_Do I, Nat?_

_Yes, you do. Think about it. You know why, I know you do. Please, Clint._

Natasha never elaborated, no matter how much Clint pushed her. Because it wasn’t Natasha. Or Phil. Or even Barney. They were gone, and they weren’t coming back. 

Clint waited too long to leave the bunker.

He knew he should have left days (weeks?) ago. The agent in him was shouting at him about tactics and being on the move and not letting them become sitting ducks. He knew he should have left, gotten Tony out of there, figured out the next stage of their plan.

He knew. He didn’t act. And then it was too late.

The bunker was a lot of things, but soundproof wasn’t one of them. Clint heard them coming just as he had untied Tony from the bed for the umpteenth time, had seen the flash of fear in Tony’s eyes when the patter of well-trained and highly armed footsteps stampeded over their heads.

“S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Tony whispered, grabbing Clint’s arm. “I can’t…Clint, help. Please.”

Clint clutched him back, hauling him to his feet and guiding him out of the bedroom. “It’s ok. I’m not going to let them get you. Where’s the backdoor?”

“Backdoor?”

“You said you built this bunker for Bruce in case he ever needed to go off-grid. There is no way Tony Stark designed the living quarters of this place as a dead end.”

Even though Tony’s hands were shaking, the corners of his mouth twitched. “For once in your life, you’d be correct, Legolas. Follow me.” He led Clint over to the bookcase, the one that Clint had been actively avoiding because he either wasn’t brave enough or wasn’t quite enough of a masochist to go through Natasha’s books.

_We both know it’s the first one, Clinton. You always were a coward._

_I know, Dad._

Tony ripped aside the Lee Child section, revealing a panel in the back. He was a second away from pressing his palm to it when a voice joined the footsteps two stories above them. An authoritative, familiar, tinged-with Brooklyn voice. “Top floor appears to be empty. Move to the next one - with extreme caution.”

Tony froze. Clint darted his eyes to the ceiling, his stomach sinking into his shoes. “Hurry up and open the door. I’ll get us out of here. I’ll protect you.”

A second familiar voice joined the first. “Ok, just, be careful, please. The research down there is, um, incomplete and very important and somewhat personal and -”

Clint stared at Tony as the voice continued, not believing what he was hearing. “You said you built this place to keep Bruce off the grid. Why would he…” Clint shook himself. He could question that later. He wasn’t letting Bruce or Steve see S.H.I.E.L.D. drag Tony off. They’d fight back, of course they would, and while Clint was pretty sure they’d win that fight, they’d lose so much more.

He wasn’t letting that happen. And Tony still hadn’t moved.

“Tony. Open the door. Now - before S.H.I.E.L.D. catches you. Before Bruce and Steve see you. _Tony._ ”

Tony’s hand was hovering over the escape panel, calculating, when a third voice was added to the commotion upstairs.

“Hey, guys, I just thought I’d check in and see - wow, Dr Banner, this place is amazing! You said Mr Stark built this?”

_No. No no no._ Bruce and Steve were bad enough. Clint couldn’t let Tony anywhere near -

Clint was lunging forward, intending to shove Tony’s hand onto the backdoor’s panel by force, but Tony was a fraction quicker. That fraction was enough. “Voice activation Tony Stark: Beartrap protocol.”

Clint collided with Tony, knocking his hand onto the panel. Nothing happened.

“What are you doing?” Clint hissed, not letting go of Tony’s wrist.

“Peter, you’re meant to be on lookout,” Steve’s voice came from upstairs. “I’m sure Bruce can show you around after it’s clear.”

“Come on, no one’s out there, and you already got like five of those S.H.I.E.L.D. guys watching the door. Guys and girls. People. S.H.I.E.L.D. people.”

The elevator started to move, as Tony made to tug out of Clint’s grip. He only got an inch before Clint got ahold of him again, wrenching one arm behind his back and pulling Tony flush against his chest. “What are you doing?” Clint repeated, keeping his voice low so as not to be heard upstairs. “We need to leave. Now.”

_Act fast, Clint._

_I’m trying, Nat._

The elevator stopped. They were on the second floor.

“Oh, wow, this lab is even cooler! Dr Banner, is this Hulk stuff? Like, for real Hulk stuff?” 

“Um, yeah, Peter? Maybe don’t touch that.”

A loud clatter and bang were heard from upstairs, followed by, “Yeah ok, my bad. What’s _this?”_

“We have to go.” Clint was breathing in Tony’s ear, could feel Tony’s heartbeat pounding in time with his own. “Open the door.”

“Ok, Clint. You’re right.”

Later, Clint would chalk it up to exhaustion. That he heard those words and relaxed, just a tiny bit. 

It was enough.

One second Tony was held securely in Clint’s grip and the next he was across the room, sprinting across the living space towards the elevator door.

“Peter? I admire your enthusiasm, son, I really do. But just wait here until we’re done, ok?”

“Steve’s right, Peter. I’ll show you all around my labs once we’re done, ok?”

He couldn’t let them see him. He couldn’t.

“Come on, Captain Rogers, Dr Banner, I can help. Really!” 

Clint drew his bow and pointed the arrow straight at Tony.

Tony stopped a few feet from the doors, in clear view of whoever came out of the elevator.

Clint’s hands were shaking. It didn’t matter. He would make the shot. He always made the shot.

“Tony. Please.” Tired. He was so tired. He just wanted to rest. “Let’s just go, ok?”

Tony didn’t move.

“I’ll stay with you. I’ll protect you. I’ll _save_ you. This time I’ll save you.”

_I couldn’t save them, but I’ll save you._

“Last floor. Move out - be careful.”

“Peter, please be careful with -”

Another loud bang. “Sorry!”

_I couldn’t save them._

Tony still hadn’t moved.

“They’re your friends. Just let them…just let them live, ok? Let them be.”

The elevator started to move again. Making its away to the bottom floor. And Tony was still in clear view of the doors.

“Tony. It’s _Peter.”_

Clint’s bow was tense in his hands. The arrow was poised like it had been hundreds, _thousands,_ of times before.

The elevator stopped. Tony turned to face Clint. Clint saw the expression on Tony’s face.

And took the shot. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References/inspirations:
> 
> Clint believing he's not sleeping, even though he clearly is, is inspired by The Bell Jar.
> 
> And as this is a Ranni-inspired fic, I threw in the following references too:
> 
> "He knew, somewhere in his tired brain he knew, that that was impossible. He’d been on the wrong end of sleep deprivation before - awful, horrible, living-nightmares-while-still-awake sleep deprivation - and this wasn’t that." = Backwards by Sixes
> 
> “Fury’s not stupid, Tony.” = Beloved Companion (where Clints says pretty much the same thing about one of their captors, Mama)
> 
> "I don’t think S.H.I.E.L.D. forks out memory removal for rogue agents.” = Voluntary Procedure
> 
> "Tony’s head shot up as Clint reentered, making a muffled protest as Clint collapsed to his knees next to him, pulling apart the knots. “Sorry. I’m so sorry. I lost track of time.” = scene and premise borrowed from Unlimited Edition 
> 
> “We’ve seen this before,” Tony continued softly. “You’ve gone to places where it’s been hard to bring you back. Where we’ve been scared we couldn’t bring you back. But we have - every time.” = Everyone Goes Five Over, Backwards by Sixes
> 
> "They wouldn’t take you back to medical, or anything. Not unless they thought they had to." = I Am Wasting Away, But Cannot Die


	8. Avenger

Before today, Clint had been able to count on one hand the number of times he had seen Steve Rogers cry. Once in the press photo from Peggy Carter’s funeral. Once after Siberia. Once after the first snap. And then twice on the same day. First for Natasha. Then for Tony.

Clint would never forgive himself for being the cause of the sixth.

Steve had acted fast, a heroic action worthy of his previous Captain America title, as the elevators had opened to revealed Clint holding what looked like Tony Stark bleeding out into the luxurious carpet, an arrow through his heart

Clint’s training had kicked in then, Phil’s voice a stalwart reminder in his ear.

_Prioritise. Do you want can, manage the damage later._

“Steve - get rid of the kid.”

And thank god for Steve Rogers and his “see the good in everyone” morality, because he had trusted Clint in a heartbeat. Just like he had the day Natasha had pulled Clint out of Loki’s grasp. One nod from Natasha had been enough. Clint was on his team.

Steve had helped Clint drag Tony - Not-Tony - into the bedroom. When the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had followed him to the bottom floor, Steve had called that the room was clear, told Clint to stay put, that promised he would be back. Clint had responded with “Tell no one.”

Steve had trusted him on that too.

Now, with Bruce driving Peter back to Queens, the teenager none-the-wiser that an image of his dead mentor had bled out one floor below his feet, Clint and Steve were sitting across from each other, the corpse between them. Clint had thrown a sheet over it before Steve had returned, but Steve had insisted on seeing it anyway. Cue waterworks.

Steve wiped at his eyes as Clint finished the story, the archer wondering afterwards if it would have been kinder to spare Steve some of the details. He had been too exhausted for edits.

He looked up at Steve, who was looking at him like he had a terminal illness. “Don’t,” Clint snapped. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like someone just told you your puppy had to be put down. Jesus.” Steve blanched and Clint immediately kicked himself. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Just…don’t _pity_ me, ok? I chose to do this. I fucked this up.” Clint gestured to the corpse. “I should have just taken it to S.H.I.E.L.D. in the first place.”

“Fury shouldn’t have put you anywhere near this,” Steve argued. “Or he could of least have let me know. I would have helped.”

“No. This was my mission. It should have _stayed_ my mission. Why you were at the lab?”

“We heard a break-in had happened. Fury wanted to send just agents but Bruce insisted on going himself, told us not to come, but I was concerned and in the middle of a training session with Peter...” Steve buried his face in his hands. “If Peter had been with me when I went down in the elevator -”

“Don’t,” Clint cut him off. “Don’t go down that route, Steve. He didn’t see anything. I just wish…” He ground his knuckles into the carpet. “I tried so hard to keep you away from this. All of you. You were finally getting to an ok place.”

Steve shrugged. “And you?”

“What about me?”

“Are you in an ok place?”

Clint brushed him off. “You know me, Cap. I roll with the punches.” Steve was still staring at him with those damn sad blue eyes, so Clint switched subjects. “How’s Sharon?”

Steve half-smiled. “Sharon’s good. We’re good. How’s Laura?”

“Fine.”

“Clint.” Steve made his way around Not-Tony’s body so he was sitting by Clint’s side. “She’s not fine. She called me the day after you left the farmhouse.”

A gentle hand took his, lifting his hand out of the carpet, where he had started to scrape the skin raw. “I didn’t know where you were. I’ve been looking for you for weeks, worried sick."

"Did you tell them I left Laura?"

Most other men would have flinched at the accusation in Clint's tone. "No," Steve said quietly. "Just that you were missing. I figured that was your business. And then the news came of a  break-in here -”

“Who told you there was a break-in?”

Steve frowned. “Bruce. Don’t change the subject. When I heard, I hoped it was you. That I’d get to come and bring you home."

“That’s not your job. And I’m fine.”

“Ok. You’re fine. Laura’s not fine. Your kids are not fine.”

“They’re better off than if I was there. Don’t,” Clint warned, as Steve prepared to continue. “It was five seconds for them. Five years for me. They lost me long before I left the farmhouse.” Clint was running his hands over his bow still. Tainted. He never could get it clean. “I’ve got bad blood. They don’t need that.”

“I don’t believe that’s true.”

“Yeah, well, you see the good in everyone. It’s nice. A nice sentiment.”

“I do - see the good in you, that is. I’m sorry you don’t.” He twisted his hands. “What can I say? To convince you to stay? If not at the farmhouse, then at least the Compound. Let us help through this - whatever it is.”

“There’s nothing left to say, Cap. Besides,” Clint nodded at the body. “Someone has to take care of that.” Clint was filled with a sudden desire to rip the sheet off. It somehow made the whole thing worse. “It wasn’t him, Steve.”

Steve nodded slowly, but didn’t seem reassured.

“Trust me,” Clint added. “I know. It wasn’t him.”

“I do. Trust you. But -”

“I know. I miss him too.”

Steve was still twisting his hands. “We lost so much that day,” he said quietly. “Tony. Natasha. I don’t want to lose you as well.” He looked for a smile he didn’t find. “It’s strange. We got so much back. And I’m with Sharon now, and Bucky’s back, Sam taking over, and Peter joining. He asks about you sometimes. Wanda does too. She misses you.”

“What do you tell them?”

“That you’re figuring some stuff out.”

Clint snorted. “I think it might be the opposite.”

Steve held out his hands, unsure. “Can I…”

Clint shrugged, but Steve took it as permission enough to wrap one of Clint’s hands in his, just as Tony (Not-Tony, he reminded himself. Again.) had, making the same argument Steve was clearly about to make. Except Not-Tony had just wanted Clint gone, so that he could…what? What exactly would Not-Tony have done?

Steve was talking, and Clint figured he should probably pay attention, even though he knew what was being said. Things about sickness and healing and time. He wasn’t interested.

“I’m ok, Steve. The best thing you can do for me is go live your life.”

“No.” Steve shook his head, stubborn. “The best thing I can do for you is be there for you. We’re a team. That’s what we do.”

Clint looked back at the shape under the sheet. “I have to take care of him.”

“We can do that together.”

“No,” Clint insisted. “It’s my mission. I’m going to finish it. Then I’ll come to the Compound, ok?”

He was lying, and they both knew it. Steve was biting his lip, looking for a new angle to the argument, so Clint switched tactics. “Saving me won’t bring either of them back.”

Steve’s brow furrowed. “That’s not…” He looked back at the sheet.

“I thought I could save him,” Clint admitted. “That maybe if I couldn’t save Phil or Natasha, maybe I could do this.” Steve’s hands were on his, warm and encompassing. It made the rest of him feel like ice. “A small part of me wished it was him. And a larger part of me figured he was so similar, in some ways, that I didn’t care.”

“He wasn’t,” Steve said firmly. “Similar, I mean. If he really said those things - did those things. Tony would have never.”

“I know,” Clint replied. “That’s not what made me sure. But I do know.”

Steve stayed another hour. Clint didn’t remember what they filled the time with, but he was grateful for it all the same.

“You’re not coming back with me, are you?” Steve let out a long breath. Clint expected him to fight, to throw Clint over his shoulder and carry him there if he had to. Instead, he just said, “Can you at least tell me where you’re going?’

Clint had given Steve a crooked smile as he shouldered his bow, stepping outside for the first time in days. The fresh air tasted bitter, like tobacco.

“Home, Steve. I’m going home.”

Clint drove after that. He wasn’t sure for how long. Time is lost on highways.

By the time he called Fury, the body that had looked like Tony Stark was gone. Clint had lifted the trunk to find nothing but ash.

***

Tony Stark had been buried near his lake house, which had since been turned into a memorial site. Pepper had announced that she couldn’t live there without him, and couldn’t bear the thought of other souls filling the space, and so it became a place of remembrance; the peace Tony had briefly known, and always deserved, preserved in time.

It wasn’t advertised or well-known, and that had been intentional. The public would grieve their lost hero in their own way, but this place was for those who wished for the privacy sorrow often asks for.

Fury was waiting for him there, by the tree that overhung the water. There were no plagues, no tombstone. The place itself held the weight that those constructions often lack. Clint felt it on his shoulders as he stepped out of the vehicle - his own, at last, and not stolen.

His and Barney’s old trailer had been the first thing he hunted down when he left the farmhouse behind. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe he had been trying to prove a point to himself. Something about being unable to outrun the past; that memories shape and form and mould us. It had been a hard pill to swallow to realise he had a say in what that final mould could be. Phil had taught him that; Natasha had reinforced it.

The trailer was home. It was the only one he had had for years. He’d locked himself away in it, reclaiming every part in it. The dent in the bumper when Barney had drunkenly swerved into a tree, the holes from Clint’s archery practice, the orange stain that had seeped through the carpet from the expensive orange juice Barney had brought home and spilled half of.

He belonged here. He had always belonged here. He was grateful for S.H.I.E.L.D., for the Tower, for the farmhouse. It had been nice pretending he had belonged there for a while instead. But the past is not something to be outrun, but to be returned to, whether we plan it or not. And here Clint had laid his head, and slept.

Until Fury had called and promised him a purpose again. A purpose he’d pursued until a familiar face had given him a better one. Now both were gone. 

By now, he was sure S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn’t chasing him. He had hidden for a week anyway, from more than just S.H.I.E.L.D.’s satellites, and wasn't sure what to make of the fact that he found it lonely. At first, he thought he hadn’t been lonely in a long time. Then he realised he had been lonely for years, but had grown so used to it that it had taken a fresh sting of loss for him to remember.

Clint parked the trailer, an eyesore next to the idyllic home, and joined the director staring out over the lake. _The sun should be setting,_ Clint thought dully. It wasn’t. It was still drifting across the sky, with no regard for dramatic timing - at least for Clint. He hoped it set dramatically on someone else’s story and made them think that the universe cared about such meaningless things as symbolism.

“Steve called you.”

Fury didn’t deny it. “He did. He was concerned. And angry. Death threats were issued.”

“To me or to you?”

“Oh, exclusively me. I suppose if any man could send me to my maker, it would probably be him.”

“I don’t know. I reckon I could, if I really put my mind to it.”

“Are you going to try?”

Clint shrugged.

“Fair enough.”

They watched the lake for a moment longer, and Clint realised that Fury was giving him space to do the talking, as he always had. Clint wondered if Fury had learned that from Phil, or vice versa. “You knew I’d come here.”

“Eventually, yes. Although,” Fury gave a pointed look at the trailer. “Your choice of vehicle was unexpected.

“It’s home.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“I don’t believe we get a say in those things. Not anymore.” If Fury disagreed, he didn’t show it. He stayed quiet, being patient, giving Clint space. 

Clint hated him a little for it. “Why didn’t you tell me?” There was a bird perched on the lake’s surface, sending ripples through the water. "I asked you if it was him. Why didn’t you just say it wasn’t?”

“I thought if you didn’t have any doubt left, you would kill it.”

Clint remembered the cigarette burying into his neck, the death grip around Not-Tony’s neck. Its neck. He should just remember it as _it._ He could pretend that that was easier.

“Well. Too late for that.”

“Indeed.” Fury bent to pick up a rock and skipped it across the lake. Clint almost stopped him, to point out the bird to him, when the bird didn’t move. Clint squinted at it. Not a bird. An old boot, or a piece of tire.

He almost laughed. Sure. Let his eyes fail him at last. Maybe he had deserved that.

“They’ve been appearing all over the country,” Fury explained. “One at a time. They try to outrun us, or hide from us, or bargain their way out. But they always die. Either one of us kills them or they kill themselves. Then another one appears.”

“Do they always look like Tony?”

“Yes.”

“That’s why you sent me.”

“A friend. Someone the latest one would hopefully stay with instead of running away or killing itself. At least long enough for us to get our hands on it. See what it was - what’s causing this.”

“You went to Bruce first.”

Fury nodded. “The first time we caught one. It went for one of our agents, so her partner killed it. We were taking it back to the lab to examine it, but it was ash before we got halfway. After that, the objective was to capture one alive. No luck so far.”

“Tony built him the lab as a secret. A contingency plan.”

“He did. But when I told Bruce that you were with another one, and that we had lost you, he told us about it. Thought if this thing had Tony’s memories, that he may have taken you there. He tried to stop Steve and Peter from coming,” Fury added softly. “Tried to pass it off as just a break-in, tried to make them stay outside.”

There was a long beat before Clint spoke again. “Do you know how I knew, in the end? When I was finally sure that it wasn’t Tony?” He found himself reaching for a bow that wasn’t there, a bow secured in a rundown trailer over an orange juice carpet stain. A bow that still felt tainted, and probably always would. He stuffed his hands under his armpits instead. “He - _it_ threatened Peter. It knew what seeing Tony apparently alive would do to him. It’s the reason I had to stop it. And Tony would have never, ever compromised Peter like that. He wouldn’t have even threatened to.”

“No,” Fury agreed. “No, he wouldn’t of.”

“I think I knew,” Clint admitted. “Even before Peter was in the building. It’s why I didn’t let it go. It’s why I didn’t run. Some part of me knew. And a bigger part of me didn’t want to believe it. So…” Clint mirrored Fury in skipping a rock, his going twice as far, stopping only when it struck the piece of rubber bobbing in the lake. Clint expected it to sink to the bottom, but it clung on stubbornly, an inch or so still poking above the dark water. “That means there’s another one out there then. Right now.”

“Theoretically. We don’t have eyes on it yet. But we’ll handle it. It was a mistake to send you in,” he admitted. “And I’m sorry.”

Clint snorted. Clint had seen Steve cry more often than he had heard Fury apologise.

_“Clint.”_ Fury was looking at him head-on now. Clint couldn’t meet his gaze. “I’m sorry.”

“What do you want from me?” It burst from him before he could stop it. “It’s ok? Don’t worry about it? Oh shucks, maybe next time?”

“I want to know that you’re going to be ok.”

Clint huffed, searching for another rock. Fury handed him one, and instead of skipping it Clint just lobbed it into the lake, hearing it splash before sinking.

“Laura calls me sometimes,” Fury continued and nope, Clint was not doing that today, not with Steve, and certainly not with Fury. He turned to go, but Fury sidestepped him, blocking his way. “Call her back. She’s worried. She wants her husband back.”

“Well, she’s not getting him,” Clint snapped back. “I’m as much her husband as that thing was Tony Stark, Fury. We look the same, we sound the same, we have the same memories, sure. But we’re different creatures. I know it. You know it. And the sooner she knows it, the better.”

And then Clint just wanted to be anywhere else, anywhere but his dead friend’s house that he never visited because he off slaughtering on another continent when he could have been here, getting to know Tony’s daughter, living some kind of life, and because Fury was wearing that same damn look of pity on his face that Steve had had and Clint couldn’t stand it anymore.

At least Not-Tony had been honest.

Clint moved but Fury blocked him again, and for a moment Clint honest to god considered decking him. He’d deserve it; for this, and so much more. For every damn dirty job he’d ever asked Clint to do to with a smile and a whistle and a casual “don’t tell anyone or I’ll kill you”.

“Be there for them, Clint.”

“They’re better off without me.”

“I’m sure if you asked them they’d say differently. It doesn’t have to be today, or tomorrow. But soon. There are things time makes easier. Apologies are not one of them. But if you’re set on not going back to the farmhouse, at least go stay at the Compound for a few days - a few weeks, however long you need. Be around that family if you’re not ready to be around the other one yet.”

“I can’t.”

“And why the hell not, Barton?” Ok, better. That sounded like the Fury Clint knew.

“Because I don’t want them looking at me like I’m some pathetic broken toy!”

“You’re not broken, Clint.”

“I am. We both know it. It’s in Barton blood.”

“Fine. Be broken. Look around you - the whole damn world is broken. We can’t repay the Avengers, Natasha, Tony, for what they did, for what they gave us. But it’s not magically fixed for _anyone._ And it doesn’t have to be for you.”

“Nice. That’s a nice speech, Director. You practice that one in the car?”

“Maria helped.”

“I can tell.” Clint took a deep breath. “And I can’t go back to the Compound because…because none of them know. Well, I guess Steve does now, and maybe Bruce, but the rest of them don’t. They fought so hard to bring them back, to bring _everyone_ back, but part of it was so that I could be with them again. And because I saw how they looked at me.”

It had been horrible; the sheer amounts of pity that had been aimed at him, even from Natasha, who had fought and tortured and killed without an ounce of remorse, the one who was supposed to know that they both took hard knocks and then they got up and they kept on fighting. The one who had never looked at him like that before that day in Tokyo.

“We all fought,” Clint continued. “Tony died. Natasha died. They risked everything and sacrificed so much and brought them all back. And I’m meant to be with them. That’s meant to be the happy ending; the one we all lost so much for. And I’m not.”

There was a long pause. “The world isn’t stories,” Fury said finally. “And we don’t get endings - except the final one. There are just days passing, until there aren’t.” He reached into a pocket, pulling out a phone that he tried to pass off to Clint, who wouldn’t take it. “You don’t have to use it. Just take it.”

“Who’s on it?”

“Me. Steve. Laura. If it helps, none of us have the number for this phone. But you’ll have ours. When you’re ready - call.”

Clint took the phone without looking at it. “Fine.”

“Clint. _Call._ ”

Clint stayed after Fury left, maybe willing a sunset after all. That’s how these things are supposed to end, right? Gazing out into a sunset on a peaceful world, lessons learned and wisdom gained.

The sky just faded to black instead.

Clint clambered back into the trailer, turning the phone over in his hands, opening the contacts. Three numbers.

He opened a text message to Steve, typed out a couple of sentences, deleted them, then regretted it. Then he blinked and it was morning.

The time jumps were still happening; times when Clint was sure he hadn’t slept. He checked the corner of the trailer every time one happened, still half-expecting a tied up figure to be looking at him with resentment and concern.  
  


He saw the newspaper headline a week later.

TONY STARK SIGHTED? SUPPOSEDLY DEAD HERO SPOTTED OUTSIDE A DAIRY QUEEN IN MARYLAND!

It was probably a hoax, Clint thought. Most of the leads he’s been following since his talk with Fury were. He didn’t know what he was looking for, not really. Just that he had been given a mission, and he hadn’t finished it yet. 

_They can handle it without you, Clint. You can rest now._

He was putting in the coordinates, mapping the route to Maryland.

_There’s nothing for you there._

_I know, Nat. There’s nothing for me anywhere. Never has been, not really._

It was days away, of course. Days of driving, loud music drowning out his thoughts, far away from Tony’s lakehouse and the pitying looks of friends.

_That’s bullshit Clint Barton and you know it._ _You had Phil. You had Tony. You had me._

_You’re gone._

_And you’re not._

_I should be._

He’d stop in crappy motels. Talk to no one. Get to the location to find that there had been no truth to the statement, or that S.H.I.E.L.D. had gotten there first.

_I saved you, asshole. Because I love you._

_I love you too, Nat._

_I know, idiot. I always knew._

Clint’s finger hovered over the GPS that would begin the long journey.

_I’m gone, Clint. That was my choice. I wouldn’t choose any differently. I wanted you to have a life. So go and have one already._

Clint stopped. Dialled a number instead, and sat in a trailer in the dark near the lake house, and pressed the call button. She answered on the first ring. “Clint?”

There was so much hope in her voice. Maybe enough for both of them. Maybe not. But they wouldn’t know until they tried.

  
**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Managed to squeeze in one last Ranni reference. If you’ve read “Voluntary Procedure” you’ll spot it. 
> 
> Thank you for coming along with me on this fic. It's not the kind of fanfiction I usually write and I was well out of my comfort zone for this one. Every kudos and comment was the encouragement needed to keep going, so thank you.
> 
> And thank you to Ranni, who let me borrow their premise from "Unlimited Edition", and for writing one of my favorite bodies of work on this site.
> 
> *Edit: I’ve linked this to my other two Clint-based stories which have a similar tone/feel, but they are not sequels to this fic.

**Author's Note:**

> So hey, I have this film and screenwriting podcast? It's called "Kill the Cat" and once a month my co-host and I and break down one of our favourite movies or tv shows and look at why they work, including Harry Potter, The Princess Bride, Brooklyn Nine-Nine and, of course, the MCU.
> 
> You can check it out on [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCHCP2VxQW1-4X9_tBtXkmAQ), [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/show/5hCprc9UCBZP4srFrBXKT1?si=ZOqdhMlVQvqV2fG5PxuvOA), or anywhere you listen to podcasts. 
> 
> And hey. You're doing great.


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